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PIERRE; 

O R, 


HE A M B I G IF I T I E 


/ 

HEEMAN MELVILLE. 


NEW YORK : 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 

329 & 33 1 PEARL STREET, 

FRANKLIN SQUARE. 

1855 . 


-^1, - 










'iy 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by 
HERMAN MELVILLE, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the Southern District of New York. 


« 


V. 






” I 
> <1 

>V 


♦ 



TO 




(irqlntlt’s ®nst (gitilhnl 3®oiJstii. 


In old times authors were proud of the privilege of 
dedicating their works to Majesty. A right noble custom, 
which we of Berkshire must revive. For whether we wiU 
or no, Majesty is all around us here in Berkshire, sitting as 
in a grand Congress of Vienna of majestical hiU-tops, and 
eternally challenging our homage. 

But since the majestic mountain, Greylock — ^my own 
more immediate sovereign lord and king — ^hath now, for in- 
numerable ages, been the one grand dedicatee of the earliest 
rays of all the Berkshire ( mornings, I know not how his Im- 
perial Purple Majesty (royal-horn: Porphyrogenitus) will re- 
ceive the dedication of my own poor solitary ray. 

N’evertheless, forasmuch as I, dwelling with my loyal 
neighbors, the Maples and the Beeches, in the amphitheater 
over which his central majesty presides, have received his 
most bounteous and unstinted fertilizations, it is hut meet, 
that I here devoutly kneel, and render up my gratitude, 
whether, thereto. The Most Excellent Purple Majesty of Grey- 
lock henignantly incline his hoary crown or no. 


PitUfield^ Mass. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 




BOOK 1. 

PIERRE JUST EMERGING FROM HIS TEENS 

BOOK II. 

LOVE, DELIGHT, AND ALARM .... 


BOOK III. 

THE PRESENTIMENT .AND THE VERIFICATION 


RETROSPECTIVE 


BOOK IV. 

* • 


BOOK V. 

MISGIVINGS AND PREPARATIVES 


BOOK VI. 


ISABEL, AND THE FIRST PART OF THE STORY OF ISABEL 


PACK 

1 


26 


56 


89 


116 


147 


VI 


CONTENTS 


BOOK VIL 

INTERMEDIATE BETWEEN PIERRE’s TWO INTERVIEWS 
WITH ISABEL AT THE FARM-HOUSE 


BOOK VIIL 

THE SECOND INTERVIEW, AND THE SECOND PART OF 
THE STORY OF ISABEL. THEIR IMMEDIATE IMPULSIVE 
EFFECT UPON PIERRE 


BOOK IX. 

MORE LIGHT, AND THE GLOOM OF THAT LIGHT. MORE 
GLOOM, AND THE LIGHT OF THAT GLOOM . . . . 


BOOK X. 

THE UNPRECEDENTED FINAL RESOLUTION OF PIERRE 


BOOK XI. 

HE CROSSES THE RUBICON . . . 


BOOK XII. 

ISABEL, MRS. GLENDINNING, THE PORTRAIT, AND LUCY 


BOOK XIII. 


PAGE 

173 


194 


224 


233 


247 


256 


THEY DEPART THE MEADOWS 


273 


CONTENTS 


BOOK XIV. 

PACK 

THE JOURNEY AND THE PAMPHLET . . . 2'7'7 

BOOK XV. 

THE COUSINS . . , 294 

BOOK XVL 

FIRST NIGHT OF THEIR ARRIVAL IN THE CITY . ; . 312 

BOOK XVII. ■ 

YOUNG AMERICA IN LITERATURE 333 

BOOK XVIII. 

PIERRE, AS A JUVENILE AUTHOR, RECONSIDERED . . 350 

BOOK XIX. 

THE CHURCH OF THE APOSTLES 360 

BOOK XX. 

CHARLIE MILLTHORPE 3 7 4 

BOOK XXL 

PIERRE IMMATURELY ATTEMPTS A MATURE BOOK. TID- 
INGS FROM THE MEADOWS. PLINLIMMON .... 384 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


BOOK XXII. 

I 

THE FLOWER-CURTAIN LIFTED FROM BEFORE A TROPI- 
CAL AUTHOR ; WITH SOME REMARKS ON THE TRAN- 
SCENDENTAL FLESH-BRUSH PHILOSOPHY 


BOOK XXIIL 

A LETTER FOR PIERRE. ISABEL. ARRIVAL OP LUCy’s 
EASEL AND TRUNKS AT THE APOSTLES’ 


BOOK XXIV. 

LUCY AT THE APOSTLES’ .... 


BOOK XXV. 

LUCY, ISABEL, AND PIERRE. PIERRE AT HIS BOOK. 
ENCELADUS 


BOOK XXVI. 

A WALK ; A FOREIGN PORTRAIT ; A SAIL. AND THE 


PACK 

402 


418 


439 


450 


END 


475 


PIERRE 


BOOK I. 

PIERRE JUST EMERGING FROM HIS TEENS. 


1 . 

There are some strange summer mornings in the country, 
when he who is but a sojourner from the city shall early walk 
forth into the fields, and be wonder-smitten with the trance-like 
aspect of the green and golden world. Not a flower stii*s ; the 
trees forget to wave ; the grass itself seems to have ceased to 
grow ; and all Nature, as if suddenly become conscious of her 
own profound mystery, and feeling no refuge from it but si- 
lence, sinks into this wonderful and indescribable repose. 

Such was the morning in June, when, issuing from the em- 
bowered and high-gabled old home of his father’s, Pierre, dew- 
ily refreshed and spiritualized by sleep, gayly entered the long, 
wide, elm-arched street of the village, and half unconsciously 
bent his steps toward a cottage, which peeped into view near 
the end of the vista. 

The verdant trance lay far and wide ; and through it nothing 
came but the brindled kine, dreamily wandering to their pas- 
tures, followed, not driven, by ruddy-cheeked, white-footed boys. 

As touched and bewitched by the loveliness of this silence, 
Pierre neared the cottage, and lifted his eyes, he swiftly paused, 

A 


2 


P I E K R E. 


fixing his glance upon one upper, open casement there. Why 
now this impassioned, youthful pause ? Why this enkindled 
cheek and eye ? Upon the sill of the casement, a snow-white 
glossy pillow reposes, and a trailing shrub has softly rested a 
rich, crimson flower against it. 

Well mayst thou seek that pillow, thou odoriferous flower, 
thought Pierre ; not an hour ago, her own cheek must have 
rested there. “ Lucy !” 

“Pierre!” 

As heart rings to heart those voices rang, and for a moment, 
in the bright hush of the morning, the two stood silently but 
ardently eying each other, beholding mutual reflections of a 
boundless admiration and love. 

“ Nothing but Pierre,” laughed the youth, at last ; “ thou 
hast forgotten to bid me good -morning.” 

“That would be little. Good-mornings, good-evenings, good 
days, weeks, months, and yeare to thee, Pierre ; — bright Pierre ! 
— Pierre 1” 

Truly, thought the youth, with a still gaze of inexpressible 
fondness ; truly the skies do ope, and this invoking angel looks 
down. — “ I would return thee thy manifold good-mornings, 
Lucy, did not that presume thou had’st lived through a night ; 
and by Heaven, thou belong’st to the regions of an infinite 
day!” 

“Fie, now, PieiTe ; why should ye youths always swear 
when ye love ?” 

“ Because in us love is profane, since it mortally reaches to- 
ward the heaven in ye !” 

“ There thou fly’st again, Pierre ; thou art always circum- 
venting me so. Tell me, why should ye youths ever show so 
sweet an expertness in turning all trifles of ours into trophies 
of yours ?” 

“ I know not how that is, but ever was it our fashion to do.” 
And shaking the casement shrub, he dislodged the flower, and 


PIERRE. 


3 


conspicuously fastened it in his bosom. — “I must away now, 
Lucy ; see ! under these coloi-s I march.” 

“ Bravissimo ! oh, my only recruit !” 


II. 

Pierre was the only son of an affluent, and haughty widow ; 
a lady who externally furnished a singular example of the pre- 
servative and beautifying influences of unfluctuating rank, 
health, and wealth, when joined to a fine mind of medium cul- 
ture, uncankered by any inconsolable grief, and never worn by 
sordid cares. In mature age, the rose still miraculously clung 
to her cheek ; litheness had not yet completely uncoiled itself 
from her waist, nor smoothness unscrolled itself from her brow, 
nor diamondness departed from her eyes. So that when lit up 
and bediademed by ball-room lights, Mrs. Glendinning still 
eclipsed far younger charms, and had she chosen to encourage 
them, would have been followed by a train of infatuated suit- 
ors, little less young than her own son Pien-e. 

But a reverential and devoted son seemed lover enough for 
this widow Bloom ; and besides all this, Pierre when name- 
lessly annoyed, and sometimes even jealously transported By 
the too ardent admiration of the handsome youths, who now 
and then, caught in unintended snares, seemed to entertain 
some insane hopes of wedding this unattainable being ; Pierre 
had more than once, with a playful malice, openly sworn, that 
the man — gray-beard, or beardless— who should dare to pro- 
pose marriage to his mother, that man would by some per- 
emptory unrevealed agency immediately disappear from the 
earth. 

This romantic filial love of Pierre seemed fully returned by 
the triumohant maternal pride of the widow, who in the clear- 


4 


PIERRE. 


cut lineaments and noble air of the son, saw her own graces 
strangely translated into the opposite sex. There was a strik- 
ing personal resemblance between them ; and as the mother 
seemed to have long stood still in her beauty, heedless of the 
passing years ; so Pierre seemed to meet her half-way, and by 
a splendid precocity of form and feature, almost advanced him- 
self to that mature stand-point in Time, where his pedestaled 
mother so long had stood. In the playfulness of their un- 
clouded love, and with that strange license which a perfect con- ^ 
fidence and mutual understanding at all points, had long bred 
between them, they were wont to call each other brother and 
sister. Both in public and private this was their usage ; nor 
when thrown among sti-angers, was this mode of address ever 
suspected for a sportful assumption ; since the amaranthiness 
of Mrs. Gleudinning fully sustained this youthful pretension. — 
Thus freely and lightsomely for mother and son flowed on the 
pure joined current of life. But as yet the fair river had not 
borne its waves to those side-ways repelling rocks, where it was 
thenceforth destined to be forever divided into two unmixing 
streams. 

An excellent English author of these times enumerating the 
prime advantages of his natal lot, cites foremost, that he first 
saw the rural light. So with Pierre. It had been his choice 
fate to have been born and nurtured in the country, surrounded 
by scenery whose uncommon loveliness was the perfect mould 
of a delicate and poetic mind ; while the popular names of its 
finest features appealed to the proudest patriotic and family as- 
sociations of the historic line of Gleudinning. On the meadows 
which sloped away from the shaded rear of the manorial man- 
sion, far to the winding river, an Indian battle had been fought, 
in the earlier days of the colony, and in that battle the paternal 
great-grandfather of Pierre, mortally wounded, had sat un- 
horsed on his saddle in the gi-ass, with his dying voice, still 
cheering his men in the fray. This was Saddle-Meadows, a 


PIEEEB. 


5 


name likewise extended to the mansion and the village. Far 
beyond these plains, a day’s walk for Pierre, rose the storied 
heights, where in the Revolutionary War his grandfather had 
for several months defended a rude but all-important stockaded 
fort, against the repeated combined assaults of Indians, Tories, 
and Regulars. From before that fort, the gentlemanly, but mur- 
derous half-breed, Brandt, had fled, but had survived to dine 
with General Glendinning, in the amicable times which fol- 
lowed that vindictive war. All the associations of Saddle- 
Meadows were full of pride to Pierre. The Glendinning deeds 
by which their estate had so long been held, bore the cyphers 
of three Indian kings, the aboriginal and only conveyancers of 
those noble woods and plains. Thus loftily, in the days of his 
circumscribed youth, did PieiTe glance along the background 
of his race ; little recking of that maturer and larger interior 
development, which should forever deprive these things of their 
full power of pride in his soul. 

But the breeding of Pierre would have been unwisely con- 
tracted, had his youth been unintermittingly passed in these 
rural scenes. At a very early period he had begun to accom- 
pany his father and mother — and afterwards his mother alone 
— in their annual visits to the city ; where naturally mingling 
in a large and polished society, Pierre had insensibly formed 
himself in the airier graces of life, without enfeebling the vigor 
derived from a martial race, and fostered in the country’s clarion 
air. 

Nor while thus liberally developed in pei*son and manners, 
was Pierre deficient in a still better and finer culture. Not in 
vain had he spent long summer afternoons in the deep recesies 
of his father’s fastidiously picked and decorous library ; where 
the Spenserian nymphs had early led him into many a maze 
of all-bewildering beauty. Thus, with a graceful glow on his 
limbs, and soft, imaginative flames in his heart, did this Pierre 
glide toward maturity, thoughtless of that period of remorse- 


6 


PIERRE. 


less insight, when all these delicate warmths should seem 
frigid to him, and he should madly demand more ardent fires. 

Nor had that pride and love which had so bountifully pro- 
vided for the youthful nurture of Pierre, neglected his culture 
in the deepest element of all. It had been a maxim with the 
father of Pierre, that all gentlemanhood was vain ; all claims 
to it preposterous and absurd, unless the primeval gentleness 
and golden humanities of religion had been so thoroughly 
wrought into the complete texture of the character, that he 
who pronounced himself gentleman, could also rightfully 
assume the meek, but kingly style of Christian. At the age 
of sixteen, Pierre partook with his mother of the Holy Sacra- 
ments. 

It were needless, and more difficult, perhaps, to trace out 
precisely the absolute motives which prompted these youthful 
vows. Enough, that as to Pierre had descended the numerous 
other noble qualities of his ancestors ; and as he now stood 
heir to their forests and farms ; so by the same insensible slid- 
ing process, he seemed to have inherited their docile homage 
to a venerable Faith, which the fii’st Glendinning had brought 
over sea, from beneath the shadow of an English minister. 
Thus in Pierre was the complete polished steel of the gentle- 
man, girded with Religion’s silken sash ; and his great-grand- 
father’s soldierly fate had taught him that the generous sash 
should, in the last bitter trial, furnish its wearer with Glory’s 
shroud ; so that what through life had been worn for Grace’s 
sake, in death might safely hold the man. But while thus all 
alive to the beauty and poesy of his father s faith, Pierre little 
foresaw that this world hath a secret deeper than beauty, and 
Life some burdens heavier than death. 

So perfect to Pierre had long seemed the illuminated scroll 
of his life thus far, that only one hiatus was discoverable by 
him in that sweetly-writ manuscript. A sister had been omit- 
ted from the text. He mourned that so delicious a feeling as 


PIERRE. 


7 


fraternal love had been denied him. Nor could the fictitious 
title, which he so often lavished upon his mother, at all supply 
the absent reality. This emotion was most natural ; and the 
full cause and reason of it even Pierre did not at that time en- 
tirely appreciate. For surely a gentle sister is the second best 
gift to a man ; and it is first in point of occurrence ; for the 
wife comes after. He who is sisterless, is as a bachelor before 
his time. For much that goes to make up the deliciousness of 
a wife, already lies in the sister. 

“Oh, had my father but had a daughter!” cried Pierre; 
“ some one whom I might love, and protect, and fight for, if 
need be. It must be a glorious thing to engage in a mortal 
quarrel on a sweet sister’s behalf ! Now, of all things, would 
to heaven, I had a sister 1” 

Thus, ere entranced in the gentler bonds of a lover; thus 
often would Pierre invoke heaven for a sister ; but Pierre did 
not then know, that if there be any thing a man might well 
pray against, that thing is the responsive gratification of some 
of the devoutest prayers of his youth. 

It may have been that this strange yearning of Pierre for a sis- 
ter, had part of its origin in that still stranger feeling of loneliness 
he sometimes experienced, as not only the solitary head of his 
family, but the only surnamed male Glendinning extant. A 
powerful and populous family had by degrees run off into the 
female branches ; so that Pierre found himself surrounded by 
numerous kinsmen and kinswomen, yet companioned by no 
surnamed male Glendinning, but the duplicate one reflected to 
him in the mirror. But in his more wonted natural mood, this 
thought was not wholly sad to him. Nay, sometimes it 
mounted into an exultant swell. For in the ruddiness, and 
flushfulness, and vaingloriousness of his youthful soul, he 
fondly hoped to have a monopoly of glory in capping the 
fame-column, whose tall shaft had been erected by his noble 


sires. 


8 


PIERRE. 


In all this, how unadmonished was our Pierre by that fore- 
boding and prophetic lesson taught, not less by Palmyra’s 
quarries, than by Palmyra’s ruins. Among those ruins is a 
crumbling, uncompleted shaft, and some leagues off, ages ago 
left in the quarry, is the crumbling con-esponding capital, also 
incomplete. These Time seized and spoiled ; these Time 
crushed in the egg; and the proud stone that should have 
stood among the clouds. Time left abased beneath the soil. 
Oh, what quenchless feud is this, that Time hath with the sons 
of Men ! 


III. 

It has been said that the beautiful country round about 
Pierre appealed to viery proud memories. But not only 
through the mere chances of things, had that fine country be- 
come ennobled by the deeds of his sires, but in Pierre’s eyes, 
all its hills and swales seemed as sanctified through their very 
long uninteiTupted possession by his race. 

That fond ideality which, in the eyes of affection, hallows the 
least trinket once familiar to the person of a departed love ; 
with PieiTe that talisman touched the whole earthly landscape 
about him ; for remembering that on those hills his own fine 
fathers had gazed ; through those woods, over these lawns, by 
that stream, along these tangled paths, many a grand-dame 
of his had merrily strolled when a girl ; vividly recalling these 
things, Pien-e deemed all that part of the earth a love-token ; 
so that his very horizon was to him as a memorial ring. 

The monarchical world very generally imagines, that in dem- 
agoguical America the sacred Past hath no fixed statues 
erected to it, but all things irreverently seethe and boil in the 
vulgar caldron of an everlasting uncrystalizing Present. This 
conceit would seem peculiarly applicable to the social condition 


PI EE RE. 


9 


With no chartered aristocracy, and no law of entail, how can 
any family in America imposingly perpetuate itself? Certainly 
that common saying among us, which declares, that be a family 
conspicuous as it may, a single half-century shall see it abased ; 
that maxim undoubtedly holds true with the commonalty. In 
our cities families rise and hurst like hubbies in a vat. For 
indeed the democratic element operates as a subtile acid among 
us ; forever producing new things by corroding the old ; as in 
the south of France verdigris, the primitive material of one kind 
of green paint, is produced by gi*ape-vinegar poured upon cop- 
per plates. Now in general nothing can be more significant of 
decay than the idea of corrosion ; yet on the other hand, 
nothing can more vividly suggest luxuriance of life, than the 
idea of gi’een as a color ; for green is the peculiar signet of all- 
fertile Nature herself. Herein by apt analogy we behold the 
marked anomalousness of America ; whose character abroad, 
we need not be surprised, is misconceived, when we consider 
how strangely she contradicts all prior notions of human things ; 
and how wonderfully to her. Death itself becomes transmuted 
into Life. So that political institutions, which in other lands 
seem above all things intensely artificial, with America seem 
to possess the divine virtue of a natural law ; for the most mighty 
of nature’s laws is this, that out of Death she brings Life. 

Still, are there things in the visible world, over which ever- 
shifting Nature hath not so unbounded a sway. The grass is 
annually changed ; but the limbs of the oak, for a long term 
of years, defy that annual decree. And if in America the vast 
mass of families be as the blades of grass, yet some few there 
are that stand as the oak ; which, instead of decaying, annually 
puts forth new branches; whereby Time, instead of subtracting, 
is made to capitulate into a multiple virtue. 

In this matter we will — not superciliously, but in fair spirit — 
compare pedigrees with England, and strange as it may seem 
at the fii-st blush, not without some claim to equality. I dare 


10 


PIERRE. 


say, that in this thing the Peerage Book is a good statistical 
standard whereby to judge her ; since the compilers of that 
work can not be entirely insensible on whose patronage they 
most rely ; and the common intelligence of our own people 
shall suffice to judge us. But the magnificence of names must 
not mislead us as to the humility of things. For as the breath 
in all our lungs is hereditary, and my present breath at this 
moment, is further descended than the body of the present 
High Priest of the Jews, so far as he can assuredly trace it ; so 
mere names, which are also but air, do likewise revel in this 
endless descendedness. But if Richmond, and St. Albans, and 
Grafton, and Portland, and Buccleugh, be names almost old as 
England herself, the present Dukes of those names stop in their 
own genuine pedigrees at Charles IL, and there find no veiy 
fine fountain ; since what -we would deem the least glorious 
parentage under the sun, is precisely the parentage of a Buc- 
cleugh, for example ; whose ancestress could not well avoid 
being a mother, it is true, but had accidentally omitted the 
preliminary rite. Yet a king was the sire. Then only so much 
the worse; for if it be small insult to be struck by a pauper 
but mortal oftense to receive a blow from a gentleman, then of 
all things the bye-blows of kings must be signally unflattering. 
In England the Peerage is kept alive by incessant restorations 
and creations. One man, George III., manufactured five hun- 
dred and twenty-two peers. An earldom, in abeyance for five 
centuries, has suddenly been assumed by some commoner, to 
whom, it had not so much descended, as through the art of the 
lawyers been made flexibly to bend in that direction. For not 
Thames is so sinuous in his natural course, not the Bridgewater 
Canal more artificially conducted, than blood in the veins of 
that winding or manufactured nobility. Perishable as stubble, 
and fungous as the fungi, those grafted families successively 
live and die on the eternal soil of a name. In England this 
day, twenty-five hundred peerages are extinct ; but the names 


P IE RR 1^. 


11 


survive. So that the empty air of' a name is more endurable 
than a man, or than dynasties of men ; the air fills man’s lungs 
and puts life into a man, but man fills not the air, nor puts life 
into that. 

All honor to the names then, and all courtesy to the men ; 
but if St. xilbans tell me he is all-honorable and all-eternal, I 
must still politely refer him to Nell Gwynne. 

Beyond Charles II. very few indeed — hardly worthy of note 
— are the present titled English families which can trace any 
thing like a direct unvitiated blood-descent from the thief 
knights of the Norman. Beyond Charles II. their direct gene- 
alogies seem vain as though some Jew clothesman, with a tea- 
canister on his head, turned over the first chapter of St. 
Matthew to make out his unmingled participation in the blood 
of King Saul, who had long died ere the career of the Caesar 
began. 

Now, not preliminarily to enlarge upon the fact that, while in 
England an immense mass of state-masonry is brought to bear 
as a buttress in upholding the hereditary existence of certain 
houses, while with us nothing of that kind can possibly be ad- 
mitted ; and to omit all mention of the hundreds of unobtrusive 
families in New England who, nevei'theless, might easily trace 
their uninterrupted English lineage to a time before Charles 
the Blade : not to speak of the old and oriental-like English 
planter families of Virginia and the South ; the Randolphs for 
example, one of whose ancestors, in King James’ time, married 
Pocahontas the Indian Princess, and in whose blood therefore 
an underived aboriginal royalty was flowing over two hundred 
years ago ; consider those most ancient and magnificent Dutch 
Manors at the North, whose perches are miles — whose meadows 
oversjiread adjacent countries — and whose haughty rent-deeds 
are held by their thousand farmer tenants, so long as grass 
grows and water runs ; which hints of a surprising eternity for 
a deed, and seem to make lawyer’s ink unobliterable as the 


12 


PIERRE. 


sea. Some of those manors are two centuries old ; and their 
present patrons or lords will show you stakes and stones on 
their estates put there — the stones at least — before Nel) 
G Wynne the Duke-mother was born, and genealogies which, 
like their own river, Hudson, flow somewhat farther and 
straighter than the Serpentine brooklet in Hyde Park. 

These far-descended Dutch meadows lie steeped in a Hin- 
dooish haze ; an eastern patriarchalness sways its mild crook 
over pastures, whose tenant flocks shall there feed, long as their 
own grass grows, long as their own water shall run. Such 
estates seem to defy Time’s tooth, and by conditions which 
take hold of the indestructible earth seem to cotemporize 
their fee-simples with eternity. Unimaginable audacity of a 
worm that but crawls through the soil he so imperially claims ! 

In midland counties of England they boast of old oaken 
dining-halls where three hundred men-at-arms could exercise 
of a rainy afternoon, in the reign of the Plantagenets. But 
our lords, the Patroons, appeal not to the past, but they point 
to the present. One will show you that the public census of a 
county, is but part of the roll of his tenants. Ranges of moun- 
tains, high as Ben He vis or Snowdon, are their walls ; and 
regular armies, with staffs of officers, crossing rivers with artil- 
lery, and marching through primeval woods, and threading 
vast rocky defiles, have been sent out to distrain upon three 
thousand farmer-tenants of one landlord, at a blow. A fact 
most suggestive two ways ; both whereof shall be nameless 
here. 

But whatever one may think of the existence of such mighty 
lordships in the heart of a republic, and however we may won- 
der at their thus surviving, like Indian mounds, the Revolution- 
ary flood ; yet survive and exist they do, and are now owned 
by their present proprietors, by as good nominal title as any 
peasant owns his father’s old hat, or any duke his great-uncle’s 
old coronet. 


PIERRE. 


13 


For all this, then, we shall not err very widely if we humbly 
conceive, that — should she choose to glorify herself in that in- 
considerable way — our America will make out a good general 
case with England in this short little matter of large estates, 
and long pedigrees — pedigrees I mean, wherein is no flaw. 


lY. 

In general terms we have been thus decided in asserting the 
great genealogical and real-estate dignity of some families in 
America, because in so doing we poetically establish the richly 
aristocratic condition of Master Pien*e Glendinning, for whom 
we have before claimed some special family distinction. And to 
the observant reader the sequel will not fail to show, how im- 
portant is this circumstance, considered with reference to the 
singularly developed character and most singular life-career of 
our hero. Nor will any man dream that the last chapter was 
merely intended for a foolish bravado, and not with a solid pur- 
pose in view. 

Now Pierre stands on this noble pedestal ; we shall see if he 
keeps that fine footing ; we shall see if Fate hath not just a 
little bit of a small word or two to say in this world. But it 
is not laid down here that the Glendinnings dated back beyond 
Pharaoh, or the deeds of Saddle-Meadows to the Three Magi 
in the Gospels. Nevertheless, those deeds, as before hinted, did 
indeed date back to three kings — Indian kings — only so much 
the finer for that. 

But if Pierre did not date back to the Pharaohs, and if the 
English farmer Hampdens were somewhat the seniors of even 
the oldest Glendinning ; and if some American manors boasted 
a few additional years and square miles over his, yet think you 
that it is at all possible, that a youth of nineteen should — mere- 


14 


PIE ERE. 


ly by way of trial of the thing — strew his ancestral kitchen 
hearth-stone with wheat in the stalk, and there standing in the 
chimney thresh out that gi-ain with a flail, whose aerial evolu- 
tions had free play among all that masonry ; were it not im- 
possible for such a flailer so to thresh wheat in his own ancestral 
kitchen chimney without feeling just a little twinge or two of 
what one might call family pride ? I should say not. 

Or how think you it would be with this youthful Pierre, if 
every day descending to breakfast, he caught sight of an old 
tattered British banner or two, hanging over an arched window 
in his hall ; and those banners captured by his grandfather, the 
general, in fair fight ? Or how think you it would be if every 
time he heard the band of the military company of the village, 
he should distinctly recognize the peculiar tap of a British ket- 
tle-drum also captured by his grandfather in fair fight, and af- 
terwards suitably inscribed on the brass and bestowed upon the 
Saddle-Meadows Artillery Corps ? Or how think you it would 
be, if sometimes of a mild meditative Fourth of July morning 
in the country, he carried out with him into the gai’den by way 
of ceremonial cane, a long, majestic, silver-tipped staff, a Major- 
General’s baton, once wielded on the plume-nodding and mus- 
ket-flashing review by the same grandfather several times here- 
in-before mentioned? I should say that considering Pierre 
was quite young and very unphilosophical as yet, and withal 
rather high-blooded ; and sometimes read the History of the 
Revolutionary War, and possessed a mother who very fre- 
quently made remote social allusions to the epaulettes of the 
Major-General his grandfather ; — I should say that upon all of 
these occasions, the way it must have been with him, was a 
very proud, elated sort of way. And if this seem but too fond 
and foolish in Pierre ; and if you tell me that this sort of thing 
in him showed him no sterling Democrat, and that a truly no- 
ble man should never brag of any arm but his own ; then I 
beg you to consider again that this Pierre was but a youngster 


PIERRE. 


15 


as yet. And believe me you will pronounce Pierre a tborougb- 
going Democrat in time ; perhaps a little too Radical altogether 
to your fancy. 

In conclusion, do not blame me if I here make repetition, and 
do verbally quote my own words in saying that it had been the 
choice fate of Pierre to have been born and bred in the country. 
For to a noble American youth this indeed — more than in any 
other land — this indeed is a most rare and choice lot. For it 
is to be observed, that while in other countries, the finest fami- 
lies boast of the country as their home ; the more prominent 
among us, proudly cite the city as their seat. Too often the 
American that himself makes his fortune, builds him a great 
metropolitan house, in the most metropolitan street of the most 
metropolitan town. Whereas a European of the same sort 
would thereupon migrate into the country. That herein the 
European hath the better of it, no poet, no philosopher, and no 
aristocrat will deny. For the country is not only the most po- 
etical and philosophical, but it is the most aristocratic part of 
this earth, for it is the most venerable, and numerous bards 
have ennobled it by many fine titles. Whereas the town is the 
more plebeian portion : which, besides many other things, is 
plainly evinced by the dirty unwashed face perpetually worn 
by the town ; but the country, like any Queen, is ever attended 
by scrupulous lady’s maids in the guise of the seasons, and the 
town hath but one dress of brick turned up with stone ; but the 
country hath a brave dress for every week in the year ; some- 
times she changes her dress twenty-four times in the twenty- 
four hours ; and the country weareth her sun by day as aMia- 
mond on a Queen’s brow ; and the stai-s by night as necklaces 
of gold beads ; whereas the town’s sun is smoky paste, and no 
diamond, and the town’s stars are pinchbeck and not gold. 

In the country then Nature planted our Pierre; because 
Nature intended a rare and original development in Pierre. 
Never mind if hereby she proved ambiguous to him in the end ; 


16 


PIERRE. 


nevertheless, in the beginning she did bravely. She blew her 
wind-clarion from the blue hills, and Pierre neighed out lyrical 
thoughts, as at the trumpet-blast, a war-horse paws himself 
into a lyric of foam. She whispered through her deep groves 
at eve, and gentle whispers of humanness, and sweet whispers 
of love, ran through Pierre’s thought-veins, musical as water 
over pebbles. She lifted her spangled crest of a thickly-starred 
night, and forth at that glimpse of their divine Captain and 
Lord, ten thousand mailed thoughts of heroicness started up 
in Pierre’s soul, and glared round for some insulted good cause 
to defend. 

So the country was a glorious benediction to young Pierre ; 
we shall see if that blessing pass from him as did the divine 
blessing from the Hebrews ; we shall yet see again, I say, 
whether Fate hath not just a little bit of a word or two to say 
in this world ; we shall see whether this wee little bit scrap of 
latinity be veiy far out of the way — Nemo contra Deum nisi 
Dens ipse. 


Y. 

“ Sister Mary,” said Pierre, returned fr-om his sunrise stroll, 
and tapping at his mother’s chamber door i — “ do you know, 
sister Mary, that the trees which have been up all night, are all 
abroad again this morning before you ? — ^Do you not smell 
something like coffee, my sister ?” 

A light step moved from within toward the door ; which 
opened, showing Mrs. Glendinning, in a resplendently cheerful 
morning robe, and holding a gay wide ribbon in her hand. 

“ Good morning, madam,” said Pierre, slowly, and with a 
bow, whose genuine and spontaneous revei’ence amusingly con- 
trasted with the sportive manner that had preceded it. For 


PIERRE. 


17 


thus sweetly and religiously was the familiarity of his affections 
bottomed on the profoundest filial respect. 

“ Good afternoon to you, Pierre, for I suppose it is afternoon. 
But come, you shall finish my toilette ; — here, brother — ” 
reaching the ribbon — “ now acquit yourself bravely — ” and 
seating hei-self away from the glass, she awaited the good offices 
of Pierre. 

“ First Lady in waiting to the Dowager Duchess Glendin- 
ning,” laughed Pierre, as bowing over before his mother, he 
gracefully passed the ribbon round her neck, simply crossing 
the ends in front. 

“ Well, what is to hold it there, Pien’e ?” 

“ I am going to try and tack it with a kiss, sister, — there ! — 
oh, what a pity that sort of fastening won’t always hold ! — 
where’s the cameo with the fawns, I gave you last night ? — 
Ah ! on the slab — ^you were going to wear it then ? — Thank 
you, my considerate and most politic sister — there ! — but stop 
— here’s a ringlet gone romping — so now, dear sister, give that 
Assyrian toss to your head.” 

The haughtily happy mother rose to her feet, and as she 
stood before the mirror to criticize her son’s adornings, Pierre, 
noticing the straggling tie of her slipper, knelt down and 
secured it. “And now for the urn,” he cried, “madam !” and 
with a humorous gallantry, offering his arm to his mother, the 
pair descended to breakfast. 

With Mrs. Glendinning it was one of those spontaneous 
maxims, which women sometimes act upon without ever 
thinking of, never to appear in the presence of her son in any 
dishabille that was not eminently becoming. Her own inde- 
pendent observation of things, had revealed to her many very 
common maxims, which often become operatively lifeless from a 
vicarious reception of them. She was vividly aware how im- 
mense was that inffuence, which, even in the closest ties of the 
heart, the merest appearances make upon the mind. And as 


18 


PIERRE. 


• 

in the admiring love and graceful devotion of Pien^e lay now 
her highest joy in life ; so she omitted no slightest trifle which 
could possibly contribute to the preservation of so §weet and 
flattering a thing. 

Besides all this, Mary Glendinning was a woman, and with 
more than the ordinary vanity of women — if vanity it can be 
called — which in a life of nearly fifty years had never betrayed 
her into a single published impropriety, or caused her one 
known pang at the heart. Moreover, she had never yearned 
for admiration ; because that was her birthright by the eternal 
privilege of beauty ; she had always possessed it ; she had not 
to turn her head for it, since spontaneously it always encom- 
passed her. Vanity, which in so many women approaches to a 
spiritual vice, and therefore to a visible blemish ; in her pe- 
culiar case — and though possessed in a transcendent degree — 
was still the token of the highest health ; inasmuch as never 
knowing what it was to yearn for its gratification, she was 
almost entirely unconscious of possessing it at all. Many 
women carry this light of their lives flaming on their fore- 
heads ; but Mary Glendinning unknowingly bore hers within. 
Through all the infinite traceries of feminine art, she evenly 
glowed like a vase which, internally illuminated, gives no out- 
ward sign of the lighting flame, but seems to shine by the very 
virtue of the exquisite marble itself. But that bluff corporeal 
admiration, with which some ball-room women are content, 
was no admiration to the mother of Pierre, Not the general 
homage of men, but the selected homage of the noblest men, 
was what she felt to be her appropriate right. And as her 
own maternal partialities were added to, and glorified the rare 
and absolute merits of Pierre ; she considered the voluntary 
allegiance of his affectionate soul, the representative fealty of 
the choicest guild of his race. Thus, though replenished 
through all her veins with the subtlest vanity, with the homage 
of Pierre alone she was content. 


PIERRE. 


19 


But as to a woman of sense and spirit, the admiration of 
even the noblest and most gifted man, is esteemed as -nothing, 
so long as she remains conscious of possessing no directly influ- 
encing and practical sorcery over his soul ; and as notwith- 
standing all his intellectual superiority to his mother, Pierre, 
through the unavoidable weakness of inexperienced and unex- 
panded youth, was strangely docile to the maternal tuitions in 
nearly all the things which thus far had any ways interested or 
affected him ; therefore it was, that to Mary Glendinning this 
reverence of Pierre was invested with all the proudest delights 
and witcheries of self-complacency, which it is possible for the 
most conquering virgin to feel. Still more. That nameless 
and infinitely delicate aroma of inexpressible tenderness and at- 
tentiveness which, in every refined and honorable attachment, is 
cotemporary with the courtship, and precedes the final banns 
and the rite ; but which, like the bouquet of the costliest Ger- 
man wines, too often evaporates upon pouring love out to 
drink, in the disenchanting glasses of the matrimonial days and 
nights ; this highest and airiest thing in the whole compass of 
the experience of our mortal life ; this heavenly evanescence — 
still further etherealized in the filial breast — was for Mary 
Glendinning, now not very far from her grand climacteric, 
miraculously revived in the courteous lover-hke adoration of 
Pierre. 

Altogether having its origin in a wonderful but purely for- 
tuitous combination of the happiest and rarest accidents of 
earth ; and not to be limited in duration by that climax which 
is so fatal to ordinary love ; this softened spell which still 
wheeled the mother and son in one orbit of joy, seemed a 
glimpse of the glorious possibility, that the divinest of those 
emotions, which are incident to the sweetest season of love, is 
capable of an indefinite translation into many of the less signal 
relations of our many chequered life. In a detached and indi- 
vidual way, it seemed almost to realize here below the sweet 


20 


PIERRE. 


dreams of those religious enthusiasts, who paint to us a Para- 
dise to come, when etherealized from all drosses and stains, the 
holiest passion of man shall unite all kindreds and climes in one 
circle of pure and unimpairable delight. 


YI. 

There was one little uncelestial trait, which, in the opinion 
of some, may mar the romantic merits of the gentlemanly 
Pierre Glendinning. He always had an excellent appetite, and 
especially for his breakfast. But when we consider that though 
Pierre’s hands were small, and his ruffles white, yet his arm 
was by no means dainty, and his complexion inclined to brown ; 
and that he generally rose with the sun, and could not sleep 
without riding his twenty, or walking his twelve miles a day, 
or felling a fair-sized hemlock in the forest, or boxing, or fen- 
cing, or boating, or performing some other gymnastical feat ; 
when we consider these athletic habitudes of Pierre, and the 
great fullness of brawn and muscle they built round about him ; 
all of which manly brawn and muscle, three times a day loudly 
clamored for attention; we shall very soon perceive that to 
have a bountiful appetite, was not only no vulgar reproach, but 
a right royal gi-ace and honor to Pierre ; attesting him a man 
and a gentleman; for a thoroughly developed gentleman is 
always robust and healthy ; and Robustness and Health are 
great trencher-men. 

So when Pierre and his mother descended to breakfast, and 
Pierre had scrupulously seen her supplied with whatever little 
things were convenient to her ; and had twice or thrice ordered 
the respectable and immemorial Dates, the servitor, to adjust 
and re-adjust the window-sashes, so that no unkind current of 
air should take undue liberties with his mother’s neck ; after 


PIERRE. 


21 


seeing to all this, but in a very quiet and inconspicuous way ; 
and also after directing the unruffled Dates, to swing out, hori- 
zontally into a particular light, a fine joyous painting, in the 
good-fellow, Flemish style (which painting was so attached to 
the wall as to be capable of that mode of adjusting), and fur- 
thermore after darting from where he sat a few invigorating 
glances over the river-meadows to the blue mountains beyond ; 
Pien-e made a masonic sort of mysterious motion to the excel- 
lent Dates, who in automaton obedience thereto, brought from 
a certain agreeable little side-stand, a very prominent-looking 
cold pasty ; which, on careful inspection with the knife, proved 
to be the embossed savory nest of a few uncommonly tender 
pigeons of Pierre’s own shooting. 

“ Sister Mary,” said he, lifting on his silver trident one of the 
choicest of the many fine pigeon morsels ; “ Sister Mary,” said 
he, “ in shooting these pigeons, I was very careful to bring 
down one in such a manner that the breast is entirely unmar- 
red. It was intended for you ! and here it is. Now Sergeant 
Dates, help hither your mistress’ plate. No ? — nothing but the 
crumbs of French rolls, and a few peeps into a coffee-cup — ^is 
that a breakfast for the daughter of yonder bold General ?” — 
pointing to a full-length of his gold-laced grandfather on the 
opposite wall. “Well, pitiable is my case when I have to 
breakfast for two. Dates !” 

“ Sir.” 

“ Remove that toast-rack. Dates ; and this plate of tongue, 
and bring the rolls nearer, and wheel the stand farther off, 
good Dates.” 

Having thus made generous room for himself, Pierre com- 
menced operations, interrupting his mouthfuls by many sallies 
of mirthfrilness. 

“You seem to be in prodigious fine spirits this morning, 
brother Pierre,” said his mother. 

“ Yes, very tolerable ; at least I can’t say, that I am low- 


22 


PIERRE. 


spirited exactly, sister Mary ; — Dates, my fine fellow, bring me 
three bowls of milk.” 

“ One bowl, sir, you mean,” said Dates, gravely and imper- 
turbably. 

As the servitor left the room, Mrs. Glendinning spoke. “ My 
dear Pierre, how often have I begged you never to permit your 
hilariousness to betray you into overstepping the exact line of 
propriety in your intercourse with servants. Dates’ look was 
a respectful reproof to you just now. You must not call 
Dates, My fine fellow. He is a fine fellow, a very fine fellow, 
indeed ; but there is no need of telling him so at my table. It 
is very easy to be eiitirely kind and pleasant to servants, with- 
out the least touch of any shade of transient good-fellowship 
with them.” 

“ Well, sister, no doubt you are altogether right ; after this I 
shall drop the fine., and call Dates nothing but fellow ; — Fellow, 
come here ! — how will that answer ?” 

“ Not at all, Pierre — but you are a Romeo, you know, and 
so for the present I pass over your nonsense.” 

“ Romeo ! oh, no. I am far from being Romeo — sighed 
PieiTe. “ I laugh, but he cried ; poor Romeo ! alas Romeo ! 
woe is me, Romeo ! he came to a very deplorable end, did 
Romeo, sister Mary.” 

^ “ It was his own fault though.” 

“ Poor Romeo !” 

“ He was disobedient to his parents.” 

“ Alas Romeo !” 

“ He married against their particular wishes.” 

“ Woe is me, Romeo !” 

“ But you, Pierre, are going to be married before long, I 
trust, not to a Capulet, but to one of our own Montagues ; and 
so Romeo’s evil fortune will hardly be yours. You will be 
happy.” 

“ The more miserable Romeo !” 


PIERRE. 


23 


“ Don’t be so ridiculous, brother Pierre ; so you are going to 
take Lucy that long ride among the hills this morning ? She 
is a sweet girl ; a most lovely girl.” 

“ Yes, that is rather my opinion, sister Mary. — By heavens, 
mother, the five zones hold not such another ! She is — ^yes — 
though I say it — Dates ! — he’s a precious long time getting 
that milk !” 

“ Let him stay. — Don’t be a milk-sop, Pierre !” 

“ Ha ! my sister is a little satirical this morning. I com- 
prehend.” 

‘‘ Never rave, Pierre ; and never rant. Your father never 
did either ; nor is it written of Socrates ; and both were very 
wise men. Your father was profoundly in love — that I know 
to my certain knowledge — but I never heard him rant about it. 
He was always exceedingly gentlemanly : and gentlemen never 
rant. Milk-sops and Muggletonians rant, but gentlemen never.” 

“ Thank you, sister. — There, put it down. Dates ; are the 
horses ready ?” • 

“ Just driving round, sir, I believe.” 

“ Why, Pierre,” said his mother, glancing out at the window, 
“ are you going to Santa Fe De Bogota with that enormous old 
phaeton ; — what do you take that Juggernaut out for ?” 

“ Humor, sister, humor ; I like it because it’s old-fashioned, 
and because the seat is such a wide sofa of a seat, and finally 
because a young lady by the name of Lucy Tartan cherishes a 
high regard for it. She vows she would like to be married in 
it.” 

“ Well, Pierre, all I have to say, is, be sure that Christopher 
puts the coach-hammer and nails, and plenty of cords and 
screws into the box. And you had better let him follow you in 
one of the farm wagons, with a spare axle and some boards.” 

“No fear, sister 5 no fear 5 — I shall take the best of care of 
the old phaeton. The quaint old arms on the panel, always 
remind me who it was that first rode in it.” 


24 


PIERRE. 


“ I am glad you have that memory, brother Pierre.” 

“ And who it was that next rode in it.” 

“ Bless you ! — God bless you, my dear son ! — always think 
of him and you can never en* ; yes, always think of your dear 
perfect father, Pierre.” 

“ Well, kiss me now, dear sister, for I must go.” 

“ There ; this is my cheek, and the other is Lucy’s ; though 
now that I look at them both, I think that hers is getting to 
be the most blooming ; sweeter dews fall on that one, I sup- 
pose.” 

Pierre laughed, and ran out of the room, for old Christopher 
was getting impatient. His mother went to the window and 
stood there. 

“ A noble boy, and docile” — she murmured — “ he has all the 
frolicsomeness of youth, with little of its giddiness. And he 
does not grow vain-glorious in sophomorean wisdom. I thank 
heaven I sent him not to college. A noble boy, and docile. A 
fine, proud, loving, docile, vigorous boy. Pray- God, he never 
becomes otherwise to me. His little wife, that is to be, will not 
estrange him from me ; for she too is docile, — ^beautiful, and 
reverential, and most docile. Seldom yet have I known such 
blue eyes as hers, that were not docile, and would not follow a 
bold black one, as two meek blue-ribboned ewes, follow their 
martial leader. How glad am I that Pierre loves her so, and 
not some dark-eyed haughtiness, with whom I could never live 
in peace ; but who would be ever setting her young married 
state before my elderly widowed one, and claiming all the hom- 
age of my dear boy — the fine, proud, loving, docile, vigorous 
boy ! — the lofty-minded, well-born, noble boy ; and with such 
sweet docilities ! See his hair ! He does in truth illustrate 
that fine sa3dng of his father’s, that as the noblest colts, in three 
points — abundant hair, swelling chest, and sweet docility — 
should resemble a fine woman, so should a noble youth. Well, 
good-bye, Pierre, and a merry morning to ye I” 


P I E R K E. 


26 


So saying she crossed the room, and — resting in a corner — 
her glad proud eye met the old General’s baton, -which the day 
before in one of his frolic moods Pierre had taken from its ac- 
customed place in the pictured-bannered hall. She hfted it, and 
musingly s-wayed it to and fro; then paused, and staff-wise 
rested -with it in her hand. Her stately beauty had ever some- 
what martial in it ; and now she looked the daughter of a 
General, as she was ; for Pierre’s was a double revolutionary 
descent. On both sides* he sprung from heroes. 

“ This is his inheritance — this symbol of command ! and I 
swell out to think it. Yet but just now I fondled the conceit 
that Pierre was so sweetly docile ! Here sure is a most strange 
inconsistency ! For is sweet docility a general’s badge ? and is 
this baton but a distaff then ? — Here’s something widely wrong. 
Now I almost wish him otherwise than sweet and docile to me, 
seeing that it must be hard for man to be an uncompromising 
hero and* a commander among his race, and yet never ruffle 
any domestic brow. Pray heaven he show his heroicness in 
some smooth way of favoring fortune, not be called out to be a 
hero of some dark hope forlorn ; — of some dark hope forlorn, 
whose cruelness makes a savage of a man. Give him, O God, 
regardrful gales ! Fan him with unwavering prosperities ! So 
shall he remain all docility to me, and yet prove a haughty 
hero to the world !” 


B 


BOOK 11. 


LOVE, DELIGHT, AND ALARM. 


• I. 

On the previous evening, Pierre had arranged with Lucy the 
plan of a long winding ride, among the hills which stretched 
around to the southward from the wide plains of Saddle-Mead- 
ows. 

Though the vehicle was a sexagenarian, the animals that 
drew it, were but six-year colts. The old phaeton had outlasted 
several generations of its drawers. 

Pierre rolled beneath the village elms in billowy style, and 
soon drew up before the white cottage door. Flinging his reins 
upon the ground he entered the house. 

The two colts were his particular and confidential friends ; 
born on the same land with him, and fed with the same corn, 
which, in the form of Indian-cakes, Pierre himself was often 
wont to eat for breakfast. The same fountain that by one branch 
supplied the stables with water, by another supplied Pierre’s 
pitcher. They were a sort of family cousins to Pierre, those 
hoi’ses ; and they were splendid young cousins ; very showy in 
their redundant manes and mighty paces, but not at all vain or 
arrogant. They acknowledged Pierre as the undoubted head 
of the house of Glendinning. They well knew that they were 
but an inferior and subordinate branch of the Glendinnings, 
bound in perpetual feudal fealty to its headmost representative. 


PIERRE. 


27 


Therefore, these young cousins never permitted themselves to 
run from Pierre ; they were impatient in their paces, but very 
patient in the halt. They were full of good-humor too, and 
kind as kittens. 

“ Bless me, how can you let them stand all alone that way, 
Pierre,” cried Lucy, as she and Pierre stepped forth from the 
cottage door, Pierre laden with shawls, parasol, reticule, and a 
small hamper. 

“ Wait a bit,” cried Pierre, dropping his load; “ I will show 
you what my colts are.” 

So saying, he spoke to them mildly, and went close up to 
them, and patted them. The colts neighed ; the nigh colt 
neighing a little jealously, as if Pierre had not patted impar- 
tially. Then, with a low, long, almost inaudible whistle, Pierre got 
between the colts, among the harness. Whereat Lucy started, 
and uttered a faint cry, but Pierre told her to keep perfectly 
quiet, for there was not the least danger in the world. And 
Lucy did keep quiet ; for somehow, though she always started 
when Pierre seemed in the slightest jeopardy, yet at bottom 
she rather cherished a notion that Pierre bore a charmed life, 
and by no earthly possibility could die from her, or experience 
any harm, when she was within a thousand leagues. 

Pierre, still between the horses, now stepped upon the pole 
of the phaeton ; then stepping down, indefinitely disappeared, 
or became partially obscured among the living colonnade of the 
holes’ eight slender and glossy legs. He entered the colonnade 
one way, and after a variety of meanderings, came out another 
way ; during all of which equestrian performance, the two 
colts kept gayly neighing, and good-humoredly moving their 
heads perpendicularly up and down ; and sometimes turning 
them sideways toward Lucy ; as much as to say — We under- 
stand young master; we understand him. Miss; never fear, 
pretty lady : why, bless your delicious little heart, we played 
with Pieri’e before you ever did. 


28 


PIERRE. 


“ Are you afraid of their running away now, Lucy said 
Pierre, returning to her. 

“ Not much, Pierre ; the superb fellows ! Why, PieiTe, they 
have made an oflBcer of you — ^look !” and she pointed to two 
foam-flakes epauletting his shoulders. “ Bravissimo again ! I 
called you my recruit, when you left my window this morning, 
and here you are promoted.” 

“ Very prettily conceited, Lucy. But see, you don’t ad- 
mire their coats ; they wear nothing but the finest Genoa 
Velvet, Lucy. See ! did you ever see such well-groomed 
horses ?” 

“ Never !” 

“Then what say you to have them for my groomsmen, 
Lucy? Glorious gi'oomsmen they would make, I declare. 
They should have a hundred ells of white favors all over their 
manes and tails; and when they drew us to church, they 
would be still all the time scattering white favors from their 
mouths, just as they did here on me. Upon my soul, they 
shall be my groomsmen, Lucy. Stately stags ! playful dogs ! 
heroes, Lucy. We shall have no marriage bells ; they shall 
neigh for us, Lucy ; we shall be wedded to the martial sound 
of Job’s trumpeters, Lucy. Hark ! they are neighing now to 
think of it.” 

“Neighing at your lyrics, Pierre. Come, let us be oflf. 
Here, the shawl, the parasol, the basket : what are you looking 
at them -so for ?” 

“ I was thinking, Lucy, of the sad state I am in. Not six 
months ago, I saw a poor affianced fellow, an old comrade of 
mine, trudging along with his Lucy Tartan, a hillock of bundles 
under either arm ; and I said to myself — There goes a samp- 
ler, now; poor devil, he’s a lover. And now look at me! 
Well, life’s a burden, they say ; why not be burdened cheerily ? 
But look ye, Lucy, I am going to enter a formal declaration 
and protest before matters go further with us. When we are 


PIERRE. 


29 


married, I am not to cany any bundles, unless in cases of real 
need ; and what is more, when there are any of your young 
lady acquaintances in sight, I am not to be' unnecessarily 
called upon to back up, and load for their particular edifica- 
tion.” \ * 

“ Now I am really vexed with you, Pierre; that is the first 
ill-natured innuendo I ever heard from you. Are there any of 
my young lady acquaintances in sight now, I should like to 
know ?” 

“ Six of them, right over the way,” said Pierre ; “ but they 
keep behind the curtains. I never trust your solitary village 
streets, Lucy. Sharp-shootei-s behind every clap-board, Lucy.” 

“ Pray, then, dear Pierre, do let us be off !” 


II. 

While Pierre and Lucy are now rolling along under the 
elms, let it be said who Lucy Tartan was. It is needless to 
say that she was a beauty ; because chestnut-haired, bright 
cheeked youths like Pierre Glendinning, seldom fall in love 
with any but a beauty. And in the times to come, there must 
be — as in the present times, and in the times gone by — some 
splendid men, and some transcendent women ; and how can 
they ever be, unless always, throughout all time, here and there, 
a handsome youth weds with a handsome maid ? 

But though owing to the above-named provisions of dame 
Nature, there always will be beautiful women in the world ; yet 
the world will never see another Lucy Tartan. Her cheeks were 
tinted with the most delicate white and red, the white predom- 
inating. Her eyes some god brought down from heaven ; her 
hair was Danae’s, spangled with Jove’s show'er; her teeth were 
dived for in the Pei-sian Sea. 


80 


PIERRE. 


If long wont to fix his glance on those who, trudging through 
the humbler walks of life, and whom unequal toil and pov- 
erty deform ; if that man shall haply view some fair and 
gracious daughter of Oie gods, who, from unknown climes of 
loveliness and affluence, comes floating into sight, all symmetry 
and radiance ; how shall he be transported, that in a world so 
full of vice and misery as ours, there should yet shine forth this 
visible semblance of the heavens. For a lovely woman is not 
entirely of this earth. Her own sex regard her not as such. A 
crowd of women eye a transcendent beauty entering a room, 
much as though a bird from Arabia had lighted on the window 
sill. Say what you will, their jealousy — ^if any — is but an after- 
birth to their open admiration. Do men envy the gods ? And 
shall women envy the goddesses ? A beautiful woman is born 
Queen of men and women both, as Mary Stuart was born Queen 
of Scots, whether men or women. All mankind are her Scots ; 
her leal clans are numbered by the nations. A true gentleman 
in Kentucky would cheerfully die for a beautiful woman in Hin- 
dostan, though he never saw her. Yea, count down his heart 
in death-drops for her ; and go to Pluto, that she might go to 
Paradise. He would turn Turk before he would disown an al- 
legiance hereditary to all gentlemen, from the hour their Grand 
Master, Adam, first knelt to Eve. 

A plain-faced Queen of Spain dwells not in half the glory a 
beautiful milliner does. Her soldiers can break heads, but her 
Highness can not crack a heart ; and the beautiful milliner might 
string hearts for necklaces. Undoubtedly, Beauty made the 
first Queen, If ever again the succession to the German Empire 
should be contested, and one poor lame lawyer should present 
the claims of the first excellingly beautiful woman he chanced 
to see — she would thereupon be unanimously elected Empress 
of the Holy Roman German Empire ; — that is to say, if all the 
Germans were true, tree-hearted and magnanimous gentlemen, 
at all capable of appreciating so immense an honor. 


PIERRE. 


31 


It is nonsense to talk of France as the seat of all civility. 
Did not those French heathen have a Salique law ? Three of 
the most bewitching creatures, — immortal flowers of the line 
of Valois — were excluded fi'om the French throne by that infa- 
mous provision. France, indeed ! whose Catholic millions still 
worship Mary Queen of Heaven ; and for ten generations re- 
fused cap and knee to many angel Maries, rightful Queens of 
France. Here is cause for universal war. See how vilely na- 
tions, as well as men, assume and wear unchallenged the 
choicest titles, however without merit. The Americans, and 
not the French, are the world’s models of chivalry. Our 
Salique Law provides that universal homage shall be paid all 
beautiful women. No man’s most solid rights shall weigh 
against her airiest whims." If you buy the best seat in the 
coach, to go and consult a doctor on a matter of life and death, 
you shall cheerfully abdicate that best seat, and limp away on 
foot, if a pretty woman, traveling, shake one feather from the 
stage-house door. 

Now, since we began by talking of a certain young lady that 
went out riding with a certain youth ; and yet find ourselves, 
after leading such a merry dance, fast by a stage-house window ; 
— this may seem rather irregular sort of writing. But whither 
indeed should Lucy Tartan conduct us, but among mighty 
Queens, and all other creatures of high degree ; and finally set 
us roaming, to see whether the wide world can match so fine a 
wonder. By immemorial usage, am I not bound to celebrate 
this Lucy Tartan ? Who shall stay me ? Is she not my hero’s 
own affianced ? What can be gainsaid ? Where underneath 
the tester of the night sleeps such another ? 

Yet, how would Lucy Tartan shrink from all this noise and 
clatter ! She is bragged of, but not brags. Thus far she hath 
floated as stilly through this life, as thistle-down floats over 
meadows. Noiseless, she, except with Pierre ; and even with 
him she lives through many a panting hush. Oh, those love- 


32 


PIERRE. 


pauses that they kuow — how ominous of their future; for 
pauses precede the earthquake, and every other terrible com- 
motion! But blue be their sky awhile, and lightsome all 
their chat, and frolicsome their humors. 

Never shall I get down the vile inventory 1 How, if with 
paper and with pencil I went out into the starry night to- in- 
ventorize the heavens ? Who shall tell etui’s as teaspoons ? 
Who shall put down the charms of Lucy Tartan upon paper ? 

And for the rest ; her parentage, what fortune she would 
possess, how many dresses in her wardrobe, and how many 
rings upon her fingers ; cheerfully would I let the genealogists, 
tax-gatherers, and upholsterers attend to that. My proper 
province is with the angelical part of Lucy. But as in some 
quarters, there prevails a sort of prejudice against angels, who 
are merely angels and nothing more ; therefore I shall mart 3 a’- 
ize myself, by letting such gentlemen and ladies into some de- 
tails of Lucy Tartan’s history. 

She was the daughter of an early and most cherished friend 
of Pierre’s father. But that father was now dead, and she re- 
sided an only daughter with her mother, in a very fine house 
in the city. But though her home was in the city, her heart 
was twice a year in the country. She did not at all love the 
city and its empty, heartless, ceremonial ways. It was very 
strange, but most eloquently significant of her own natural 
angelhood that, though born among brick and mortar in a 
sea-port, she still pined for unbaked earth and inland grass. 
So the sweet linnet, though born inside of wires in a lady’s 
chamber on the ocean coast, and ignorant all its life of any 
other spot ; yet, when spring-time comes, it is seized with flut- 
terings and vague impatiences ; it can not eat or drink for these 
wild longings. Though unlearned by any experience, still the 
inspired linnet divinely knows that the inland migrating time 
has come. And just so with Lucy in her first longings for the 
verdure. Every spi-ing those wild flutterings shook her ; every 


PIERRE. 


83 


spring, this sweet linnet girl did migrate inland. Oh God 
grant that those other and long after nameless flutterings of 
her inmost soul, when all life was become weary to her — God 
grant, that those deeper flutterings in her were equally signifi- 
cant of her final heavenly migration fi’om this heavy earth. 

It was fortunate for Lucy that her Aunt Lanyllyn— a pen- 
sive, childless, white-turbaned widow — possessed and occupied 
a pretty cottage in the village of Saddle Meadows ; and still 
more fortunate, that this excellent old aunt was veiy partial to 
her, and always felt a quiet delight in having Lucy near her. 
So Aunt Lanyllyn’s cottage, in effect, was Lucy’s. And now, 
for some years past, she had annually spent several months at 
Saddle Meadows ; and it was among the pure and soft incite- 
ments of the country that Pierre first had felt toward Lucy the 
dear passion which now made him wholly hers. 

Lucy had two brothers ; one her senior, by three years, and 
the other her junior by two. But these young men were 
oflScers in the navy ; and so they did not permanently live with 
Lucy and her mother. 

Mrs. Tartan was mistress of an ample fortune. She was, 
moreover, perfectly aware that such was the fact, and was 
somewhat inclined to force it upon the notice of other people, 
nowise interested in the matter. In other words, Mrs. Tartan, 
instead of being daughter-proud, for which she had infinite 
reason, was a little inclined to being purse-proud, for which she 
had not the slightest reason ; seeing that the Great Mogul 
probably possessed a larger fortune than she, not to speak of 
the Shah of Persia and Baron Rothschild, and a thousand 
other millionaires; whereas, the Grand Turk, and all their 
other majesties of Europe, Asia, and Africa to boot, could not, 
in all their joint dominions, boast so sweet a girl as Lucy. 
Nevertheless, Mrs. Tartan was an excellent sort of lady, as this 
lady-like world goes. She subscribed to charities, and owned five 
pews in as many churches, and went about trying to promote the 


u 


PIEBRE. 


general felicity of the world, by making all the handsome young 
people of her acquaintance marry one another. In other words, 
she was a match-maker — not a Lucifer match-maker — though, 
to tell the truth, she may have kindled the matrimonial blues 
in certain dissatisfied gentlemen’s breasts, who had been wed- 
ded under her particular auspices, and by her particular advice. 
Rumor said — but rumor is always fibbing — that there was a 
secret society of dissatisfied young husbands, who were at the 
pains of privately circulating handbills among all unmarried 
young strangere, warning them against the insidious approaches 
of Mi*s. Tartan ; and, for reference, named themselves in cipher. 
But this could not have been true ; for, flushed with a thousand 
matches — burning blue or bright, it made httle matter — Mi-s. 
Tartan sailed the seas of fashion, causing all topsails to lower to 
her ; and towing flotillas of young ladies, for all of whom she 
was bound to find the finest husband harbors in the world. 

But does not match-making, like charity, begin at home? 
Why is her own daughter Lucy without a mate ? But not so 
fast ; Mrs. Tartan years ago laid out that sweet programme 
concerning Pierre and Lucy ; but in this case, her programme 
happened to coincide, in some degree, with a previous one in 
heaven, and only for that cause did it come to pass, that Pierre 
Glendinning was the proud elect of Lucy Tartan. Besides, this 
being a thing so nearly affecting herself, Mrs. Tartan had, for 
the most part, been rather circumspect and cautious in all her 
manoeuvrings with Pierre and Lucy. Moreover, the thing de- 
manded no manoeuvring at all. The two Platonic particles, 
after roaming in quest of each other, from the time of Saturn 
and Ops till now ; they came together before Mrs. Tartan’s own 
eyes; and what more could Mrs. Tartan do toward making 
them forever one and indivisible ? Once, and only once, had a 
dim suspicion passed through Pierre’s mind, that Mi-s. Tartan 
was a lady thimble-rigger, and slyly rolled the pea. 

In their less mature acquaintance, he was breakfasting with 


PIERRE 


85 


Lucy and her mother in the city, and the first cup of coffee had 
been poured out by Mrs. Tartan, when she declared she smelt 
matches burning somewhere in the house, and she must see 
them extinguished. So banning all pursuit, she rose to seek 
for the burning matches, leaving the pair alone to interchange 
the civilities of the coffee ; and finally sent word to them, from 
above stairs, that the matches, or something else, had given her 
a headache, and begged Lucy to send her up some toast and 
tea, for she would breakfast in her own chamber that morning. 

Upon this, Pierre looked from Lucy to his boots, and as he 
lifted his eyes again, saw Anacreon on the sofa on one side of 
him, and Moore’s Melodies on the other, and some honey on 
the table, and a bit of white satin on the floor, and a sort of 
bride’s veil on the chandelier. 

Never mind though — thought Pierre, fixing his gaze on 
Lucy — I’m entirely willing to be caught, when the bait is set in 
Paradise, and the bait is such an angel. Again he glanced at 
Lucy, and saw a look of infinite subdued vexation, and some 
unwonted pallor on her cheek. Then willingly he would have 
kissed the delicious bait, that so gently hated to be tasted in 
the trap. But glancing round^again, and seeing that the mu- 
sic, which Mrs. Tartan, under the pretense of putting in order, 
had been adjusting upon the piano ; seeing that this music was 
nowin a vertical pile against the wall, with — '‘'‘Love was once a 
little hoy'' for the outermost and only visible sheet ; and think- 
ing this to be a remarkable coincidence under the circum- 
stances ; Pierre could not refrain from a humorous smile, though 
it was a very gentle one, and immediately repented of, espe- 
cially as Lucy seeing and interpreting it, immediately arose, 
with an unaccountable, indignant, angelical, adorable, and all- 
persuasive “ Mr. Glendinning ?” utterly confounded in him the 
slightest germ of suspicion as to Lucy’s collusion in her mother’s 
imagined artifices. 

Indeed, Mrs. Tartan’s having any thing whatever to do, or 


86 


PIERRE. 


hint, or finesse in this matter of the loves of Pierre and Lucy, 
was nothing less than immensely gratuitous and sacrilegious. 
Would Mrs. Tartan doctor lilies when they blow ? Would Mrs. 
Tartan set about match-making between the steel and magnet ? 
Preposterous Mrs. Tartan ! But this whole world is a prepos- 
terous one, with many preposterous people in it ; chief among 
whom was Mi-s. Tartan, match-maker to the nation. 

This conduct of Mrs. Tartan, was the more absurd, seeing that 
she could not but know that Mrs. Glendinning desired the 
thing. And was not Lucy wealthy ? — g'oing to be, that is, very 
wealthy when her mother died ; — (sad thought that for Mrs. 
Tartan) — and was not her husband’s family of the best ; and 
had not Lucy’s father been a bosom friend of Pierre’s father ? 
And though Lucy might be matched to some one man, where 
among women was the match for Lucy ? Exceedingly prepos- 
terous Mrs. Tartan ! But when a lady like Mi-s. Tartan has 
nothing positive and useful to do, then she will do just such 
preposterous things as Mrs. Tartan did. 

Well, time w^ent on ; and Pierre loved Lucy, and Lucy, 
Pierre ; till at last the two young naval gentlemen, her broth- 
ers, happened to arrive in Mrs. Tartan’s drawing-room, from 
their fii-st cruise — a three yeai-s’ one up the Mediterranean. 
They rather stared at Pierre, finding him on the sofa, and Lucy 
not veiy remote. 

“Pray, be seated, gentlemen,” said Pierre. “Plenty of 
room.” 

“ My darling brothers !” cried Lucy, embracing them. 

“ My darling brothers and sister !” cried Pierre, folding them 
together. 

“ Pray, hold off, sir,” said the elder brother, who had served 
as a passed midshipman for the last two weeks. The younger 
brother retreated a little, and clapped his hand upon his dirk, 
saying, “ Sir, we are from the Mediterranean. Sir, permit me 
to say, this is decidedly improper ! Who may you be, sir ?” 


PIERRE. 


37 


“ I can’t explain for joy,” cried Pierre, hilariously embracing 
them all again. 

“ Most extraordinary !” cried the elder brother, extricating his 
shirt-collar from the embrace, and pulling it up vehemently. 

“ Draw !” cried the younger, intrepidly. 

“ Peace, foohsh fellows,” cried Lucy — “ this is your old play- 
fellow, Pierre Glendinning.” 

“ Pierre ? why, Pierre ?” cried the lads — “ a hug all round 
again ! You’ve grown a fathom ! — ^who would have known 
you ? But, then — Lucy ? I say, Lucy ? — what business have 
you here in this — eh ? eh ? — hugging-match, I should call it ?” 

“ Oh ! Lucy don’t mean any thing,” cried Pierre — “ come, 
one more all round.” 

So they all embraced again ; and that evening it was public- 
ly known that Pierre was to wed with Lucy. 

Whereupon, the young officers took it upon themselves to 
think — though they by no means presumed to breathe it — that 
they had authoritatively, though indirectly, accelerated a before 
ambiguous and highly incommendable state of affairs between 
the now affianced lovers. 


III. 

In the fine old robust times of Pierre’s grandfather, an Amer- 
ican gentleman of substantial person and fortune spent his time 
in a somewhat different style from the green-house gentlemen 
of the present day. The grandfather of Pierre measured six 
feet four inches in height ; during a fire in the old manorial 
mansion, with one dash of his foot, he had smitten down an 
oaken door, to admit the buckets of his negro slaves ; Pierre 
had often tried on his military vest, which still remained an 
heirloom at Saddle Meadows, and found the pockets below 


38 


PIE REE. 


his knees, and plenty additional room for a fair-sized quai’ter- 
cask within its buttoned girth ; in a night-scujffle in the wilder- 
ness before the Revolutionary War, he had annihilated two In- 
dian savages by making reciprocal bludgeons of their heads. 
And all this was done by the mildest hearted, and most blue- 
eyed gentleman in the world, who, according to the patriarchal 
fashion of those days, was a gentle, white-haired worshiper of 
all the household gods ; the gentlest husband, and the gentlest 
father ; the kindest of masters to his slaves ; of the most won- 
derful unruffledness of temper ; a serene smoker of his after- 
dinner pipe ; a forgiver of many injuries ; a sweet-hearted, 
charitable Christian ; in fine, a pure, cheerful, childlike, blue- 
eyed, divine old man ; in whose meek, majestic soul, the lion 
and the lamb embraced — fit image of his God. 

Never could Pierre look upon his fine military portrait with- 
out an infinite and mournful longing to meet his living aspect 
in actual life. The majestic sweetness of this portrait was truly 
wonderful in its effects upon any sensitive and generous-minded 
young observer. For such, that portrait possessed the heavenly 
persuasiveness of angelic speech ; a glorious gospel framed and 
hung upon the wall, and declaring to all people, as from the 
Mount, that man is a noble, god-like being, full of choicest 
juices ; made up of strength and beauty. 

Now, this grand old Pierre Glendinning was a great lover of 
horses ; but not in the modern sense, for he was no jockey ; — 
one of his most intimate friends of the masculine gender was a 
huge, proud, gray horse, of a surprising reserve of manner, his 
saddle-beast ; he had his horses’ mangers carved like old tren- 
chei*s, out of solid maple logs ; the key of the corn-bin hung 
in his library ; and no one grained his steeds, but himself ; un- 
less his absence from home promoted Moyar, an incorruptible 
and most punctual old black, to that honorable office. He said 
that no man loved his horses, unless his own hands grained 
them. Every Christmas he gave them brimming measures. “ I 


PIERRE. 


39 


keep Christmas with my horses,” said grand old Pierre. This 
grand old Pierre always rose at sunrise ; washed his face and 
chest in the open air ; and then, returning to his closet, and be- 
ing completely arrayed at last, stepped forth to make a cere- 
monious call at his stables, to bid his very honorable friends 
there a very good and joyful morning. Woe to Cranz, Kit, 
Douw, or any other of his stable slaves, if grand old Pierre 
found one horse unblanketed, or one weed among the hay that 
filled their rack. Not that he ever had Cranz, Kit, Douw, or 
any of them flogged — a thing unknown in that patriarchal time 
and country- — but he would refuse to say his wonted pleasant 
word to them ; and that was very bitter to them, for Cranz, 
Kit, Douw, and all of them, loved grand old Pierre, as his 
shepherds loved old Abraham. 

What decorous, lordly, gray-haired steed is this? What 
old Chaldean rides abroad ? — ’Tis grand old Pierre ; who, every 
morning before he eats, goes out promenading with his saddle- 
beast ; nor mounts him, without first asking leave. But time 
glides on, and grand old Pierre grows old : his life’s glorious 
grape now swells with fatness ; he has not the conscience to 
saddle his majestic beast with such a mighty load of manliness. 
Besides, the noble beast himself is gi’owiug old, and has a 
touching look of meditativeness in his large, attentive eyes. 
Leg of man, swears grand old Pierre, shall never more bestiide 
my steed ; no more shall harness touch him ! Then every 
spring he sowed a field with clover for his steed ; and at mid- 
summer sorted all his meadow grasses, for the choicest hay to 
winter him ; and had his destined grain thrashed out with a 
flail, whose handle had once borne a flag in a brisk battle, jnto 
which this same old steed had pranced with grand old Pierre ; 
one waving mane, one waving sword ! 

Now needs must grand old Pierre take a morning drive ; he 
rides no more with the old gray steed. He has a phaeton 
built, fit for a vast General, in whose sash three common men 


40 


PIERRE. 


might hide. Doubled, ti-ebled are the huge S shaped leather 
springs ; the wheels seem stolen from some mill ; the canopied 
seat is like a testered bed. From beneath the old archway, not 
one horse, but two, every morning now draw forth old Pien-e, 
as the Chinese draw their fat god Josh, once eveiy year from 
out his fane. 

But time glides on, and a morning comes, when the phaeton 
emerges not ; but all the yards and courts are full ; helmets 
line the ways ; sword-points strike the stone steps of the porch ; 
muskets ring upon the stairs ; and mournful martial melodies 
are heard in all the halls. Grand old Pierre is dead ; and like 
a hero of old battles, he dies on the eve of another war ; ere 
wheeling to fire on the foe, his platoons fire over their old com- 
mander’s grave; in A. D. 1812, died grand old Pierre. The 
drum that beat in brass his funeral march, was a British kettle- 
drum, that had once helped beat the vain-glorious march, for 
the thirty thousand predestined prisoners, led into sure captiv- 
ity by that bragging boy, Burgoyne. 

Next day the old gray steed turned fi’om his grain ; turned 
round, and vainly whinnied in his stall. By gracious Moyar’s 
hand, he refuses to be patted now ; plain as home can speak, 
the old gray steed says — “ I smell not the wonted hand ; where 
is grand old Pierre ? Grain me not, and groom me not ; — 
Where is grand old Pierre ?” 

He sleeps not far from his master now ; beneath the field 
he cropt, he has softly lain him down ; and long ere this, 
grand old Pierre and steed have passed through that grass to 
glory. 

But his phaeton — like his plumed hearse, outlives the noble 
load it bore. And the dark bay steeds that drew grand old 
Pierre alive, and by his testament drew him dead, and fol- 
lowed the lordly lead of the led gray horse ; those dark bay 
steeds are still extant; not in themselves or in their issue ; but 
in the two descendants of stallions of their own breed. For 


PIERRE. 


41 


on the lands of Saddle Meadows, man and horse are both he- 
reditary ; and this bright morning Pierre Glendinning, grandson 
of grand old Pierre, now drives forth with Lucy Tartan, seated 
where his own ancestor had sat, and reining steeds, whose 
great-great-great-grandfathers grand old Pierre had reined be* 
fore. 

How proud felt Pierre : In fancy’s eye, he saw the horse- 
ghosts a-tandem in the van ; “ These are but wheelers” — cried 
young Pierre — “ the leaders are the generations.” 


lY. 

But Love has more to do with his own possible and probable 
posterities, than with the once living but now impossible ances- 
tries in the past. So Pierre’s glow of family pride quickly gave 
place to a deeper hue, when Lucy bade love’s banner blush out 
from his cheek. 

That morning was the choicest drop that Time had in his 
vase. Inefiable distillations of a soft delight were wafted from 
the fields and hills. Fatal morning that, to all lovers unbe- 
trothed ; “ Come to your confessional,” it cried. “ Behold our 
airy loves,” the birds chirped from the trees ; far out at sea, no 
more the sailors tied their bowline-knots ; their hands had lost 
their cunning; will they, nill they. Love tied love-knots on 
eveiy spangled spar. 

Oh, praised be the beauty of this earth, the beauty, and the 
bloom, and the mirthfulness thereof ! The first worlds made 
were winter worlds ; the second made, were vernal worlds ; the 
third, and last, and perfectest, was this summer world of ours. 
In the cold and nether spheres, preachers preach of earth, as 
we of Paradise above. Oh, there, my friends, they viy, they 
have a season, in their language known as sumn? Then 


42 


PIERE E. 


their fields spin themselves green carpets ; snow and ice are 
not in all the land ; then a million strange, bright, fragrant 
things powder that sward with peifuhaes ; and high, majestic 
beings, dumb and grand, stand up with outstretched arms, and 
hold their green canopies over merry angels — men and women 
— who love and wed, and sleep and dream, beneath the .ap- 
proving glances of their visible god and goddess, glad-hearted 
sun, and pensive moon ! 

Oh, praised be the beauty of this earth ; the beauty, and the 
bloom, and the mirthfulness thereof. We lived before, and 
shall live again ; and as we hope for a fairer world than this 
to come ; so we came from one less fine. From each succes- 
sive world, the demon Principle is more and more dislodged ; 
he is the accursed clog from chaos, and thither, by every new 
translation, we drive him further and further back again. Ho- 
sannahs to this world ! so beautiful itself, and the vestibule to 
more. Out of some past Egypt, we have come to this new 
Canaan ; and from this new Canaan, we press on to some Cir- 
cassia. Though still the villains. Want and Woe, followed us 
out of Egypt, and now beg in Canaan’s streets : yet Circassia’s 
gates shall not admit them ; they, -with their sire, the demon 
Principle, must back to chaos, whence they came. 

Love was first begot by Mirth and Peace, in Eden, when the 
world was young. The man oppressed with cares, he can not 
love ; the man of gloom finds not the god. So, as youth, for 
the most part, has no cares, and knows no gloom, therefore, 
ever since time did begin, youth belongs to love. Love may 
end in grief and age, and pain and need, and all other modes 
of human mournfulness ; but love begins in joy. Love’s first 
sigh is never breathed, till after love hath laughed. Love 
laughs first, and then sighs after. Love has not hands, but 
cymbals ; Love’s mouth is chambered like a bugle, and the 
instinctive breathings of his life breathe jubilee notes of joy ! 

That morning, two bay hoi*ses drew two Laughs along the 


PIERRE, 


43 


road that led to the hills from Saddle Meadows. Apt time 
they kept ; Pierre Glendinning’s young, manly tenor, to Lucy 
Tartan’s girlish treble. 

Wondrous fair of face, blue-eyed, and golden-haired, the 
bright blonde, Lucy, was arrayed in colors harmonious with the 
heavens. Light blue be thy perpetual color, Lucy ; light blue 
becomes thee best — such the repeated azure counsel of Lucy 
Tartan’s mother. On both sides, from the hedges, came to 
Pierre the clover bloom of Saddle Meadows, and from Lucy’s 
mouth and cheek came the fresh fragrance of her violet young 
being. 

“ Smell I the flowers, or thee ?” cried Pierre. 

“ See I lakes, or eyes cried Lucy, her own gazing down 
into his soul, as two stars gaze down into a tarn. 

No Cornwall miner ever sunk so deep a shaft beneath the 
sea, as Love will sink beneath the floatings of the eyes. Love 
sees ten million fathoms down, till dazzled by the floor of pearls. 
The eye is Love’s own magic glass, where all things that are 
not of earth, glide in supernatural light. There are not so 
many fishes in the sea, as there are sweet images in lovers’ eyes. 
In those miraculous translucencies swim the strange eye-fish 
with wings, that sometimes leap out, instinct with joy ; moist 
fish-wings wet the lover’s cheek. Love’s eyes are holy things ; 
thei-ein the mysteries of life are lodged ; looking in each other’s 
eyes, lovei-s see the ultimate secret of the worlds ; and with 
thrills eternally untranslatable, feel that Love is god of all!* 
Man or woman who has never loved, nor once looked deep 
down into their own lover’s eyes, they know not the sweetest 
and the loftiest religion of this earth. Love is both Creator’s 
and Saviour’s gospel to mankind 5 n volume bound in rose- 
leaves, clasped with violets, and by the beaks of humming-birds 
printed with peach-juice on the leaves of lilies. 

Endless is the account of Love. Time and space can not con- 
tain Love’s story. All things that are sweet to see, or taste, or 


44 


P I E E R E. 


feel, or hear, all these things were made by Love ; and none 
other things were made by Love. Love made not the Arctic 
zones, but Love is ever reclaiming them. Say, are not the 
fierce things of this earth daily, hourly going out ? Where 
now are your wolves of Britain ? Where in Virginia now, find 
you the panther and the pard ? Oh, love is busy everywhere. 
Eveiywhere Love hath Moravian missionaries. No Propagan- 
dist like to love. The south wind wooes the barbarous north ; 
on many a distant shore the gentler west wind persuades the 
arid east. 

All this Earth is Love’s affianced ; vainly the demon Prin- 
ciple howls to stay the banns. Why round her middle wears 
this world so rich a zone of torrid verdure, if she be not dressing 
for the final rites ? And why provides she orange blossoms 
and lilies of the valley, if she would not that all men and maids 
should love and marry ? For every wedding where true lovers 
wed, helps on the march of universal Love. Who are brides 
here shall be Love’s bridemaids in the marriage world to 
come. So on all sides Love allures ; can contain himself what 
youth who views the wonders of the beauteous woman-world ? 
Where a beautiful woman is, there is all Asia and her Bazars. 
Italy hath not a sight before the beauty of a Yankee girl ; nor 
heaven a blessing beyond her earthly love. Did not the angel- 
ical Lotharios come down to earth, that they might taste of 
mortal woman’s Love and Beauty ? even while her own silly 
brothers were pining after the self-same Paradise they left? 
Yes, those envying angels did come down ; did emigrate ; and 
who emigrates except to be better off? 

Love is this world’s great redeemer and reformer ; and as all 
beautiful women are her selectest emissaries, so hath Love 
gifted them with a magnetical persuasiveness, that no youth 
can possibly repel. The own heart’s choice of every youth, 
seems ever as an inscrutable witch to him ; and by ten thou- 
sand concentric spells and circling incantations, glides round 


PIERRE. 


45 


and round him, as he turns : murmuring meanings of unearth- 
ly import ; and summoning up to him all the subterranean 
sprites and gnomes ; and unpeopling all the sea for naiads to 
swim round him ; so that mysteries are evoked as in exhala- 
tions by this Love ; — what wonder then that Love was aye a 
mystic ? 


Y. 

And this . self-same morning Pierre was very mystical ; not 
continually, though ; but most mystical one moment, and over- 
flowing with mad, unbridled merriment, the next. He seemed 
a youthful Magian, and almost a mountebank together. Chal- 
daic improvisations burst fi’om him, in quick Golden Verses, 
on the heel of humorous retort and repartee. More especially, 
the bright glance of Lucy was transporting to him. Now, 
reckless of his horses, with both arms holding Lucy in his em- 
brace, hke a Sicilian diver he dives deep down in the Adriatic 
of her eyes, and brings up some king’s-cup of joy. All the 
waves in Lucy’s eyes seemed waves of infinite glee to him. And 
as if, like veritable seas, they did indeed catch the reflected ir- 
radiations of that pellucid azure morning ; in Lucy’s eyes, there 
seemed to shine all the blue glory of the general day, and all 
the sweet inscrutableness of the sky. And certainly, the blue 
eye of woman, like the sea, is not uninfluenced by the atmos- 
phere. Only in the open air of some divinest, summer day, 
will you see its ultramarine, — its fluid lapis lazuli. Then would 
Pierre burst forth in some screaming shout of joy ; and the 
striped tigei*s of his chestnut eyes leaped in their lashed cages 
with a fierce delight. Lucy shrank from him in extreme love ; 
for the extremest top of love, is Fear and Wonder. 

Soon the swift horses drew this fair god and goddess nigh 
the wooded hills, whose distant blue, now changed into a va- 


46 


PIERRE. 


riously-shaded green, stood before them like old Babylonian 
walls, overgrown with verdure ; while here and there, at regu- 
lar intervals, the scattered peaks seemed mural towers; and 
the clumped pines surmounting them, as lofty archers, and 
vast, out-looking watchers of the glorious Babylonian City of 
the Day. Catching that hilly air, the prancing horses neighed ; 
laughed on the gi-ound with gleeful feet. Felt they the gay 
delightsome spurrings of the day ; for the day was mad with 
excessive joy ; and high in heaven you heard the neighing of 
the horses of the sun ; and down dropt their nostrils’ froth in 
many a fleecy vapor from the hills. 

From the plains, the mists rose slowly ; reluctant yet t# quit 
so fair a mead. At those green slopings, Pierre reined in his 
steeds, and soon the twain were seated on the bank, gazing far, 
and far away ; over many a grove and lake ; corn-crested up- 
lands, and Herd’s-grass lowlands ; and long-stretching swales 
of vividest green, betokening where the greenest bounty of this 
earth seeks its winding channels ; as ever, the most heavenly 
bounteousness most seeks the lowly places ; making green and 
glad many a humble mortal’s breast, and leaving to his own 
lonely aridness, many a hill-top prince’s state. 

But Grief, not Joy, is a moralizer ; and small moralizing 
wisdom caught Pierre from that scene. With Lucy’s hand in 
his, and feeling, softly feeling of its soft tinglingness ; he seemed 
as one placed in linked correspondence with the summer light- 
nings ; and by sweet shock on shock, receiving intimating fore- 
tastes of the etherealest delights of earth. 

JSTow, prone on the grass he falls, with his attentive upward 
glance fixed on Lucy’s eyes. “ Thou art my heaven, Lucy ; and 
here I lie thy shepherd-king, watching for new eye-stars to rise 
in thee. Ha! I see Venus’ transit now; — lo! a new planet 
there ; — and behind all, an infinite starry nebulousness, as if 
thy being were backgrounded by some spangled vail of mys- 
tery.” 


PIERRE. 


47 


Is Lucy deaf to all these ravings of his lyric love ? Why 
looks she down, and vibrates so ; and why now from her over- 
charged lids, drops such warm drops as these ? No joy now 
in Lucy’s eyes, and seeming tremor on her lips. 

“ Ah ! thou too ardent and impetuous Pierre !” 

Nay, thou too moist and changeful April ! know’st thou 
not, that the moist and changeful April is followed by the glad, 
assured, and showerless joy of June ? And this, Lucy, this day 
should be thy June, even as it is the earth’s ?” 

“ Ah Pierre ! not June to me. But say, are not the sweets 
of June made sweet by the April tears ?” 

“ Ay, love ! but here fall more drops, — more and more ; — 
these showers are longer than beseem the April, and pertain 
not to the June.” 

“ June ! June ! — thou bride’s month of the summer, — ^fol- 
lowing the spring’s sweet courtship of the earth, — my June, 
my June is yet to come !” 

“ Oh ! yet to come, but fixedly decreed •; — ^good as come, 
and better.” 

“ Then no flower that, in the bud, the April showere have 
nurtured ; no such flower may untimely perish, ere the June 
unfolds it ? Ye will not swear that, Pierre ?” 

“ The audacious immortalities of divinest love are in me ; 
and I now swear to thee all the immutable eternities of joyful- 
ness, that ever woman dreamed of, in this dream-house of the 
earth. A god decrees to thee unchangeable felicity ; and to me, 
the unchallenged possession of thee and them, for my inalien- 
able fief. — ^Do I rave? Look on me, Lucy; think on me, 
girl.” 

“ Thou art young, and beautiful, and strong ; and a joyful 
manliness invests thee, Pierre ; and thy intrepid heart never 
yet felt the touch of fear ; — ^But — 

“But what?” 

“ Ah, my best Pierre !” 


48 


PIERRE. 


“ With kisses«I will suck thy secret from thy cheek ! — but 
what?” 

“Let us hie homeward, Pierre. Some nameless sadness, 
faintness, strangely comes to me. Foretaste I feel of endless 
dreariness. Tell me once more the story of that face, Pierre, — 
that mysterious, haunting face, which thou once told’st me, 
thou didst thrice vainly try to shun. Blue is the sky, oh, 
bland the air, Pierre ; — ^but — tell me the story of the face, — the 
dark-eyed, lustrous, imploring, mournful face, that so mysti- 
cally paled, and shrunk at thine. Ah, Pierre, sometimes I have 
thought, — ^never will I wed with my best Pierre, until the 
riddle of that face be known. Tell me, tell me, Pierre ; — as a 
fixed basilisk, with eyes of steady, flaming mournfulness, that 
face this instant fastens me.” 

“ Bewitched ! bewitohed ! — Cursed be the hour I acted on 
the thought, that Love hath no reserves. Never should I have 
told thee the story of that face, Lucy. I have bared myself 
too much to thee. Oh, never should Love know all I” 

“Knows not all, then loves not all, Pierre. Never shalt 
thou so say again ; — and Pierre, listen to me. Now, — now, in 
this inexplicable trepidation that I feel, I do conjure thee, 
that thou wilt ever continue to do as thou hast done ; so that 
I may ever continue to know all that agitatest thee, the airiest 
and most transient thought, that ever shall sweep into thee 
fi’om the wide atmosphere of all things that hem mortality. 
Did I doubt thee here ; — could I ever think, that thy heart hath 
yet one private nook or corner from me ; — fatal disenchanting day 
for me, my PieiTe, would that be. I tell thee, Pierre — and ’tis 
Love’s own self that now speaks through me — only in un- 
bounded confidence and interchangings of ail subtlest secrets, 
can Love possibly endure. Love’s self is a secret, and so feeds 
on secrets, Pierre. Did I only know of thee, what the whole 
common world may know — what then were Pierre to me ? — 
Thou must be wholly a disclosed secret to me ; Love is vain 


P I E K R E . 


49 


and proud ; and when I walk the streets, and meet thy friends, 
I must still be laughing and hugging to myself the thought, — 
They know him not ; — I only know my Pierre ; — none else be- 
neath the circuit of yon sun. Then, swear to me, dear Pierre, 
that thou wilt never keep a secret from me — no, never, never ; 
— swear T’ 

“ Something seizes me. Thy inexplicable team, falling, falling 
on my heart, have now turned it to a stone. I feel icy cold 
and hard ; I will not swear !” 

“Pierre! Pierre!” 

“ God help thee, and God help me, Lucy. I can not think, 
that in this most mild and dulcet air, the invisible agencies are 
plotting treasons against our loves. Oh ! if ye be now nigh 
us, ye things I have no name for ; then by a name that should 
be efficacious — by Christ’s holy name, I warn ye back from her 
and me. Touch her not, ye airy devils ; hence to your ap- 
pointed hell ! why come ye prowling in these heavenly per- 
lieus ? Can not the chains of Love omnipotent bind ye, fiends ?” 

“ Is this Pierre ? His eyes glare fearfully ; now I see layer 
on layer deeper in him ; he turns round and menaces the air 
and talks to it, as if defied by the air. Woe is me, that fairy 
love should raise this evil spell ! — Pierre ?” 

“ But now I was infinite distances from thee, oh my Lucy, 
wandering baffled in the choking night ; but thy voice might 
find me, though I had wandered to the Boreal realm, Lucy. 
Here I sit down by thee ; I catch a soothing from thee.” 

“ My own, own Pierre ! Pierre, into ten trillion pieces I 
could now be torn for thee ; in my bosom would yet hide thee, 
and there keep thee warm, though I sat down on Arctic ice- 
floes, frozen to a corpse. My own, best, blessed Pierre ! How, 
could I plant some poniard in me, that my silly ailings should 
have power to move thee thus, and pain thee thus. Forgive 
me, Pierre ; thy changed face hath chased the other from me ; 
the fright of thee exceeds all other frights. It does not so 

C 


50 


P I E ERE. 


haunt me now. Press hard my hand ; look hard on me, my 
love, that its last trace may pass away. Now I feel almost 
whole again ; now, ’tis gone. Up, my Pierre ; let us up, and 
fly these hills, whence, I fear, too wide a prospect meets us. 
Fly we to the plain. See, thy steeds neigh for thee — they call 
thee — see, the clouds fly down toward the plain — lo, these hills 
now seem all desolate to me, and the vale all verdure. Thank 
thee, Pierre.— See, now, I quit the hills, dry-cheeked ; and 
leave all tears behind to be sucked in by these evergreens, 
meet emblems of the unchanging love, my own sadness noui-- 
ishes in me. Hard fate, that Love’s best verdure should feed 
so on tears !” 

Now they rolled swiftly down the slopes ; nor tempted the 
upper hills ; but sped fast for the plain. Now the cloud hath 
passed from Lucy’s eye ; no more the lurid slanting light forks 
upward from her lover’s brow. In the plain they find peace, 
and love, and joy again. 

“ It was the merest, idling, wanton vapor, Lucy !” 

“ An empty echo, Pierre, of a sad sound, long past. Bless 
thee, my Pierre !” 

“ The great God wrap thee ever, Lucy. So, now, we are 
home.” 


VI. 

After seeing Lucy into her aunt’s most cheerful parlor, and 
seating her by the honeysuckle that half clambered into the 
window there ; and near to which was her easel for crayon 
sketching, upon part of whose frame Lucy had cunningly 
trained two slender vines, into whose earth-filled pots two of 
the three legs of the easel were inserted ; and sitting down 
himself by her, and by his pleasant, lightsome chat, striving to 


P I E R K E . 


61 


chase the last trace of sadness from her ; and not till his object 
seemed fully gained ; Pierre rose to call her good aunt to her, and 
so take his leave till evening, when Lucy called him back, beg- 
ging him first to bring her the blue portfolio from her chamber, 
for she wished to kill her last lingering melancholy — ^if any in- 
deed did linger now — by diverting her thoughts, in a little 
pencil sketch, to scenes widely different from those of Saddle 
Meadows and its hills. 

So Pierre went up stairs, but paused on the threshold of 
the open door. He never had entered that chamber but with 
feelings of a wonderful reverentialness. The carpet seemed as 
holy ground. Every chair seemed sanctified by some departed 
saint, there once seated long ago. Here his book of Love was 
all a rubric, and said — ^Bow now, Pierre, bow. But this ex- 
treme loyalty to the piety of love, called from him by such 
glimpses of its most secret inner shrine, was not unrelieved be- 
times by such quickenings of all his pulses, that in fantasy he 
pressed the wide beauty of the world in his embracing arms ; 
for all his world resolved itself into his heart’s best love for 
Lucy. 

Now, crossing the magic silence of the empty chamber, he 
caught the snow-white bed reflected in the toilet-glass. This 
rooted him. For one swift instant, he seemed to see in that 
one glance the two separate beds — the real one and the reflect- 
ed one — and an unbidden, most miserable presentiment there- 
upon stole into him. But in one breath it came and went. So 
he advanced, and with a fond and gentle joyfulness, his eye 
now fell upon the spotless bed itself, and fastened on a snow- 
white roll that lay beside the pillow. Now he started ; Lucy 
seemed coming in upon him ; but no — ’tis only the foot of one 
of her little slippers, just peeping into view from under the nar- 
row nether curtains of the bed. Then again his glance fixed 
itself upon the slender, snow-white, ruffled roll ; and he stood 
as one enchanted. Never precious parchment of the Greek 


62 


PIEERE. 


was half so precious in his eyes. Never trembhng scholar 
longed more to unroll the mystic vellum, than Pierre longed to 
unroll the sacred secrets of that snow-white, ruffled thing. But 
his hands touched not any object in that chamber, except the 
one he had gone thither for. 

“ Here is the blue portfolio, Lucy. See, the key hangs to its 
silver lock; — were you not fearful I would open it? — ^’twas 
tempting, I must confess.” 

“ Open it !” said Lucy — “ why, yes, Pierre, yes ; what secret 
thing keep I from thee ? Read me through and through. I 
am entirely thine. See !” and tossing open the portfolio, all 
manner of rosy things came floating from it, and a most deli- 
cate perfume of some invisible essence. 

“ Ah ! thou holy angel, Lucy !” 

“ Why, Pierre, thou art transfigured ; thou now lookest as 
one who — why, Pierre ?” 

“ As one who had just peeped in at paradise, Lucy ; 
and ” 

“ Again wandering in thy mind, Pierre ; no more — Come, 
you must leave me, now. I am quite rested again. Quick, 
call my aunt, and leave me. Stay, this evening we are to look 
over the book of plates from the city, you know. Be early ; — 
go now, Pierre.” 

“ Well, good-bye, till evening, thou height of all delight.” 


YII. 

As Pierre drove through the silent village, beneath the verti- 
cal shadows of the noon-day trees, the sweet chamber scene 
abandoned him, and the mystical face recurred to him, and 
kept with him. At last, arrived at home, he found his mother 
absent ; so passing straight through the wide middle hall of the 


PIE REE. 


58 


mansion, lie descended the piazza on the other side, and wan« 
dered away in reveries down to the river hank. 

Here one primeval pine-tree had been luckily left standing 
by the otherwise unsparing woodmen, who long ago had cleai’ed 
that meadow. It was once crossing to this noble pine, from a 
cliunp of hemlocks far across the river, that Pierre had first 
noticed the significant fact, that while the hemlock and the pine 
are trees of equal gi’owth and stature, and are so similar in 
their general aspect, that people unused to woods sometimes 
confound them ; and while both trees are proverbially trees of 
sadness, yet the dark hemlock hath no music in its thoughtful 
boughs; but the gentle pine-tree drops melodious mourn- 
fulness. 

At its half-bared roots of sadness, Pierre sat down, and 
marked the mighty bulk and far out-reaching length of one 
particular root, which, straying down the bank, the storms and 
rains had years ago exposed. 

“ How wide, how strong these roots must spread ! Sure, 
this pine-tree takes powerful hold of this fair earth ! Yon 
bright flower hath not so deep a root. This tree hath outlived 
a century of that gay flower’s generations, and will outlive a 
century of them yet to come. This is most sad. Hark, now 
I hear the pyramidical and numberless, flame-like complainings 
of this Eolean pine ; — the wind breathes now upon it : — the 
wind, — that is God’s breath ! Is He so sad ? Oh, tree ! so 
mighty thou, so lofty, yet so mournful ! This is most strange ! 
Hark ! as I look up into thy high secrecies, oh, tree, the face, 
the face, peeps down on me ! — ‘ Art thou Pierre ? Come to 
me’ — oh, thou mysterious girl, — what an ill-matched pendant 
thou, to that other countenance of sweet Lucy, which also 
hangs, and first did hang within my heart ! Is grief a pen- 
dant then to pleasantness ? Is grief a self-willed guest that will 
come in ? Yet I have never known thee. Grief ; — thou art a 
legend to me. I have known some fiery broils of glorious 


64 


PIEERE. 


frenzy; I have oft tasted of reveiy; whence comes pensive- 
ness ; whence comes sadness ; whence all delicious poetic pre- 
sentiments; — but thou, Grief! art still a ghost-story to me. 
I know thee not, — do half disbelieve in thee. Not that I 
would he without my too little cherished fits of sadness now 
and then ; hut God keep me from thee, thou other shape of 
far profounder gloom 1 I shudder at thee ! The face 1 — the 
face ! — forth again from thy high secrecies, oh, tree ! the face 
steals down upon me. Mysterious girl ! who art thou ? by 
what right snatchest thou thus my deepest thoughts ? Take 
thy thin fingers from me ; — I am affianced, and not to thee. 
Leave me ! — what share hast thou in me ? Surely, thou lovest 
not me? — that were most miserable for thee, and me, and 
Lucy. It can not be. What, who art thou ? Oh ! wretched 
vagueness — ^too familiar to me, yet inexplicable, — unknown, 
utterly unknown ! I seem to founder in this perplexity. Thou 
seemest to know somewhat of me, that I know not of myself, 
— what is it then? If thou hast a secret in thy eyes of 
mournful mystery, out with it ; Pierre demands it ; what is 
that thou hast veiled in thee so imperfectly, that I seem to see 
its motion, but not its form ? It visibly rustles behind the 
concealing screen. Now, never into the soul of Pierre, stole 
there before, a muffledness like this ! If aught really lurks 
in it, ye sovereign powers that claim all my leal worshi pings, 
I conjure ye to lift the veil ; I must see it face to face. Tread 
I on a mine, warn me ; advance I on a precipice, hold me 
back ; but abandon me to an unknown misery, that it shall 
suddenly seize me, and possess me, wholly, — that ye will never 
do ; else, Pierre’s fond faith in ye — now clean, untouched — 
may clean depart ; and give me up to be a railing atheist ! 
Ah, now the face departs. Pray heaven it hath not only 
stolen back, and hidden again in thy high secrecies, oh tree ! 
But ’tis gone — ^gone — entirely gone ; and I thank God, and I 
feel joy again ; joy, which I also feel to be my right as man ; 


P I E REE. 


55 


deprived of joy, I feel I should find cause for deadly feuds 
with things invisible. Ha ! a coat of iron-mail seems to grow 
round, and husk me now ; and I have heard, that the bitterest 
winters are foretold by a thicker husk upon the Indian corn ; 
so our old farmers say. But ’tis a dark similitude. Quit thy 
analogies ; sweet in the orator’s mouth, bitter in the thinker’s 
belly. Now, then, I’ll up with my own joyful will ; and with 
my joy’s face scare away all phantoms : — so, they go ; and 
Pierre is Joy’s, and Life’s again. Thou pine-tree ! — henceforth 
I will resist thy too treacherous persuasiveness. Thou’lt not 
so often woo me to thy airy tent, to ponder on the gloomy 
rooted stakes that bind it. Hence now I go ; and peace be 
with thee, pine ! That blessed sereneness which lurks ever at 
the heart of sadness — mere sadness — and remains when all 
the rest has gone ; — that sweet feeling is now mine, and 
cheaply mine. I am not sorry I was sad, I feel so blessed 
now. Dearest Lucy ! — well, well ; — ’twill be a pretty time 
we’ll have this evening ; there’s the book of Flemish prints — 
that first we must look over; then, second, is Flaxman’s 
Homer — clear-cut outlines, yet full of unadorned ^barbaric 
nobleness. Then Flaxman’s Dante ; — Dante ! Night’s and 
V Hell’s poet he. No, we will not open Dante. Methinks now 
the face — the face — minds me a little of pensive, sweet Fran- 
cesca’s face — or, rather, as it had been Francesca’s daughter’s 
face — wafted on the sad dark wind, toward observant Virgil 
and the blistered Florentine. No, we will not open Flaxman’s 
Dante. Francesca’s mournful face is now ideal to me. Flax- 
man might evoke it wholly, — make it present in lines of misery 
— bewitching power. No ! I will not open Flaxman’s Dante ! 
Damned be the hour I read in Dante ! more damned than 
that wherein Palola and Francesca lead in fatal Launcelot !” 


BOOK III. 


THE PRESENTIMENT AND THE VERIFICATION. 


I. 

The face, of which Pierre and Lucy so strangely and fear- 
fully hinted, was not of enchanted air ; but its mortal linea- 
ments of mournfulness had been visibly beheld by Pierre. Nor 
had it accosted him in any privacy ; or in any lonely byeway ; 
or beneath the white light of the crescent moon -; but in a joy- 
ous chamber, bright with candles, and ringing with two score 
women’s gayest voices. Out of the heart of mirthfulness, this 
shadow had come forth to him. Encircled by bandelets of 
light, it had still beamed upon him ; vaguely historic and pro- 
phetic ; backward, hinting of some irrevocable sin ; forward, 
pointing to some inevitable ill. One of those faces, which now 
and then appear to man, and without one word of speech, still 
reveal glimpses of some fearful gospel. In natural guise, but 
lit by supernatural light ; palpable to the senses, but inscruta- 
ble to the soul ; in their perfectest impression on us, ever hover- 
ing between Tartarean misery and Paradisaic beauty; such 
faces, compounded so of hell and heaven, overthrow in us all 
foregone pereuasions, and make us wondering children in this 
world again. . 

The face had accosted Pierre some weeks previous to his ride 
with Lucy to the hills beyond Saddle Meadows ; and before her 
arrival for the summer at the village ; moreover it had accosted 


P I E REE. 


57 


him in a very common and homely scene ; but this enhanced 
the wonder. 

On some distant business, with a farmer- ten ant, he had been 
absent from the mansion during the best part of the day, and 
had but just come home, early of a pleasant moonlight evening, 
when Dates delivered a message to him from his mother, beg- 
ging him to come for her about half-past seven that night to 
Miss Llanyllyn’s cottage, in order to accompany her thence to 
that of the two Miss Pennies. At the mention of that last 
name, Pierre well knew what he must anticipate. Those eld- 
erly and truly pious spinsters, gifted with the most benevolent 
hearts in the world, and at mid-age deprived by envious nature 
of their hearing, seemed to have made it a maxim of their char- 
itable lives, that since God had not given them any more the 
power to hear Christ’s gospel preached, they would therefore 
thenceforth do what they could toward practicing it.. Wherefore, 
as a matter of no possible interest to them now, they abstained 
from church ; and while with prayer-boOks in their hands the 
Rev. Mr. Palsgrave’s congregation were engaged in worshiping 
their God, according to the divine behest ; the two Miss Pen- 
nies, with thread and needle, were hard at work in serving him ; 
making up shirts and gowns for the poor people of the parish. 
Pierre had heard that they had recently been at the trouble of 
organizing a regular society, among the neighboring farmers’ 
wives and daughters, to meet twice a month at their own house 
(the Miss Pennies) for the purpose of sewing in concert for the 
benefit of various settlements of necessitous emigrants, who had 
lately pitched their populous shanties further up the river. But 
though this enterprise had not been started without previously 
acquainting Mrs. Glendinning of it, — for indeed she was much 
loved and honored by the pious spinsters, — and their promise 
of solid assistance from that gi-acious manorial lady ; yet Pierre 
had not heard that his mother had been officially invited to 
preside, or be at all present at the semi-monthly meetings; 

c# 


58 


PIERRE. 


though he supposed, that far from having any scruples against 
so doing, she would be very glad to associate that way, with 
the good people of the village. 

“Now, brother Pierre” — said Mrs. Glendinning, rising from 
Miss Llanyllyn’s huge cushioned chair — “throw my shawl 
around me ; and good-evening to Lucy’s aunt. — There, we shall 
be late.” 

As they walked along, she added — “ Now, Pierre, I know 
you are apt to be a little impatient sometimes, of these sewing 
scenes ; but courage ; I merely want to peep in on them ; so 
as to get some inkling of what they would indeed be at ; and 
then my promised benefactions can be better selected by me. 
Besides, Pierre, I could have had Dates escort me, but I pre- 
ferred you ; because I want you to know who they are you live 
among ; how many really pretty, and naturally-refined dames 
and girls you shall one day be lord of the manor of. I antici- 
pate a rare display of rural red and white.” 

Cheered by such pleasant promises, Pierre soon found him- 
self leading his mother into a room full of faces. The instant 
they appeared, a gratuitous old body, seated with her knitting 
near the door, squeaked out shrilly — “ Ah ! dames, dames, — 
Madam Glendinning ! — Master Pierre Glendinning !” 

Almost immediately following this sound, there came a sud- 
den, long-drawn, unearthly, girlish shriek, from the further cor- 
ner of the long, double room. Never had human voice so 
afiected Pierre before. Though he saw not the person from 
whom it came, and though the voice was wholly strange to him, 
yet the sudden shriek seemed to split its way clean through his 
heart, and leave a yawning gap there. For an instant, he stood 
bewildered ; but started at his mother’s voice ; her arm being 
still in his. “ Why do you clutch my arm so, Pierre ? You 
pain me. Pshaw ! some one has fainted, — nothing more.” 

Instantly Pierre recovered himself, and affecting to mock at 
his own trepidation, hurried across the room to offer his services, 


PIEREE. 


59 


if such were needed. But dames and maidens had been all 
beforehand with him ; the lights were wildly flickering in the 
air-current made by the flinging open of the casement, near to 
where the shriek had come. But the climax of the tumult 
was soon past ; and presently, upon closing the casement, it 
subsided almost wholly. -The elder of the spinster Pennies, ad- 
vancing to Mrs. Glendinning, now gave her to understand, that 
one of the further crowd of industrious girls present, had been 
attacked by a sudden, but fleeting fit, vaguely imputable to some 
constitutional disorder or other. She was now quite well again. 
And so the company, one and all, seemingly acting upon their 
natural good-breeding, which in any one at bottom, is but deli- 
cacy and charity, refrained from all further curiosity ; reminded 
not the girl of what had passed ; noted her scarce at all ; and 
all needles stitched away as before. 

Leaving his mother to speak with whom she pleased, and 
attend alone to her own affairs with the society ; Pierre, ob- 
livious now in such a lively crowd, of any past unpleasantness, 
after some courtly words to the Miss Pennies, — insinuated into 
their understandings through a long coiled trumpet, which, 
when not in use, the spinsters wore, hanging like a powder-horn 
from their girdles : — and likewise, after manifesting the pro- 
foundest and most intelligent interest in the mystic mechanism 
of a huge woolen sock, in course of completion by a spectacled 
old lady of his more particular acquaintance ; after all this had 
been gone through, and something more too tedious to detail, 
but which occupied him for nearly half an hour, Piei’re, with^a 
slightly blushing, and imperfectly balanced assurance, advanced 
toward the further crowd of maidens ; where, by the light of 
many a well-snufied candle, they clubbed all their bright con- 
trasting cheeks, like a dense bed of garden tulq)s. There were 
the shy and pretty Maries, Marthas, Susans, Betties, Jennies, 
Nellies ; and forty more fair nymphs, who skimmed the cream, 
and made the butter of the fat farms of Saddle Meadows. 


60 


PIERRE. 


Assurance is in presence of the assured. Where embarrass- 
ments prevail, they affect the most disemban-assed. What 
wonder, then, that gazing on such a thick array of wreathing, 
roguish, half-averted, blushing faces — still audacious in their 
very embarrassment- — Pierre, too, should flush a bit, and stam- 
mer in his attitudes a little ? Youthful love and graciousness 
were in his heart ; kindest words upon his tongue ; but there 
he stood, target for the transfixing glances of those ambushed 
archers of the eye. 

But his abashments last too long ; his cheek hath changed 
from blush to pallor ; what strange thing does Pierre Glendin- 
ning see ? Behind the first close, busy breast-work of young 
girls, are several very little stands, or circular tables, where sit 
small groups of twos and threes, sewing in small comparative 
solitudes, as it were. They would seem to be the less notable 
of the rural company ; or else, for some cause, they have volun- 
tarily retired into their humble banishment. Upon one of 
these persons engaged at the furthermost and least conspicuous 
of these little stands, and close by a casement, Pierre’s glance 
is palely fixed. 

The girl sits steadily sewing ; neither she nor her two com- 
panions speak. Her eyes are mostly upon her work ; but 
now and then a very close observer would notice that she fur- 
tively lifts them, and moves them sideways and timidly toward 
Pierre ; and then, still more furtively and timidly toward his 
lady mother, further off. All the wdiile, her preternatural 
calmness sometimes seems only made to cover the intensest 
struggle in her bosom. Her unadorned and modest dress is 
black ; fitting close up to her neck, and clasping it with a 
plain, velvet border. To a nice perception, that velvet shows 
elastically; contracting and expanding, as though some choked, 
violent thing were risen up there within from the teeming 
region of her heart. But her dark, olive cheek is without a 
blush, or sign of any disquietu^ie. So far as this girl lies upon 


PIERRE. 


61 


the common surface, ineffable composure steeps her. But still, 
she sideways steals the furtive, timid glance. Anon, as yielding 
to the irresistible climax of her concealed emotion, whatever 
that may be, she lifts her whole maiwelous countenance into 
the radiant candlelight, and for one swift instant, that face of 
supematuralness unreservedly meets Pierre’s. Now, wonderful 
loveliness, and a still more wonderful loneliness, have with in- 
explicable implorings, looked up to him from that henceforth 
immemorial face. There, too, he seemed to see the fair ground 
where Anguish had contended with Beauty, and neither being 
conqueror, both had laid down on the field. 

Recovering at length from his all too obvious emotion, Pierre 
tiumed away still farther, to regain the conscious possession of 
himself. A wild, bewildering, and incomprehensible curiosity 
had seized him, to know something definite of that face. To 
this curiosity^ at the moment, he entirely surrendered himself ; 
unable as he was to combat it, or reason with it in the slightest 
way. So soon as he felt his outward composure returned to him, 
he purposed to chat his way behind the breastwork of bright 
eyes and cheeks, and on some parlor pretense or other, hear, if 
possible, an audible syllable from one whose mere silent aspect 
had so potentially moved him. But at length, as with this ob- 
ject in mind, he was crossing the room again, he heard his 
mother’s voice, gayly calling him away ; and turning, saw her 
shawled and bonneted. He could now make no plausible stay, 
and smothering the agitation in him, he bowed a general and 
burned adieu to the company, and went forth with his mother. 

They had gone some w^ay homeward, in perfect silence, when 
his mother spoke. 

“ Well, Pierre, what can it possibly be ?” 

“ My God, mother, did you see her then ?” 

“ My son !” cried Mrs. Glendinning, instantly stopping in tei 
ror, and withdrawing her arm from Pierre, “ what — what 
under heaven ails you ? This is most strange ! I but playfully 


62 


PIEKRE. 


asked, what you were so steadfastly thinking of ; and here you 
answer me by the strangest question, in a voice that seems to 
come from under your great-grandfather’s tomb ! What, in 
heaven’s name, does this mean, Pierre ? Why were you so 
silent, and why now are you so ill-timed in speaking ? Answer 
me ; — explain all this ; — she — she — ^what she should you be 
thinking of but Lucy Tartan? — Pierre, beware, beware! I 
had thought you fiimer in your lady’s faith, than such strange 
behavior as this would seem to hint. Answer me, Pierre, 
what may this mean ? Come, I hate a mystery ; speak, my 
son.” 

Fortunately, this prolonged verbalized wonder in his mother 
afforded Pien-e time to rally from his double and aggravated 
astonishment, brought about by first suspecting that his mother 
also had been struck by the strange aspect of the face, and then, 
having that suspicion so violently beaten back upon him, by her 
apparently unaffected alarm at finding him in some rei^on of 
thought wholly unshared by herself at the time. 

“ It is nothing — nothing, sister Mary ; just nothing at all in 
the world. I believe I was dreaming — sleep-walking, or some- 
thing of that sort. They were vastly pretty girls there this 
evening, sister Mary, were they not ? Come, let us walk on — 
do, sister mine.” 

“ Pierre, Pierre I — but I will take your arm again ; — and have 
you really nothing more to say ? were you really wandering, 
Pierre ?” 

“ I swear to you, my dearest mother, that never before in my 
whole existence, have I so completely gone wandering in my 
soul, as at that very moment. But it is all over now.” Then 
in a less earnest and somewhat playful tone, he added : “ And 
sister mine, if you know aught of the physical and sanitary au- 
thoi-s, you must be aware, that the only treatment for such a 
case of harmless temporary aberration, is for all persons to ig- 
nore it in the subject. So no more of this foolishness. Talk- 


PIERRE. 


63 


ing about it only makes me feel very unpleasantly silly, and 
there is no knowing that it may not bring it back upon me.” 

“ Then by all means, my dear boy, not another word about it. 
But it’s passing strange — very, very strange indeed. Well, 
about that morning business ; how fared you ? Tell me about 
it.” 


II. 

So Pierre, gladly plunging into this welcome current of talk, 
was enabled to attend his mother home without furnishing fur- 
ther cause for her concern or wonderment. But not by any 
means so readily could he allay his own concern and wonder- 
ment. Too really true in itself, however evasive in its effect at 
the time, was that earnest answer to his mother, declaring that 
never in his whole existence had he been so profoundly stirred. 
The face haunted him as some imploring, and beauteous, im- 
passioned, ideal Madonna’s haunts the morbidly longing and 
enthusiastic, but ever-baffled artist. And ever, as the mystic 
face thus rose before his fancy’s sight, another sense was touched 
in him ; the long-drawn, unearthly, girlish shriek pealed through 
and through his soul ; for now he knew the shriek came from 
the face — such Delphic shriek could only come from such a 
source. And wherefore that shriek ? thought Pierre. Bodes 
it ill to the face, or me, or both ? How am I changed, that 
my appearance on any scene should have power to work such 
woe ? But it was mostly the face — the face, that wrought up- 
on him. The shriek seemed as incidentally embodied there. 

The emotions he experienced seemed to have taken hold of 
the deepest roots and subtlest fibres of his being. And so 
much the more that it was so subterranean in him, so much 
the more did he feel its weird inscrutableness. What was one 
unknown, sad-eyed, shrieking girl to him ? There must be sad- 


64 


PIEKRE. 


eyed girls somewhere in the world, and this was only one of 
them. And what was the most beautiful sad-eyed girl to him ? 
Sadness might be beautiful, as well as mirth — he lost himself 
trying to follow out this tangle. “ I will no more of this infat- 
uation,” he would cry ; but forth from regions of irradiated air, 
the divine beauty and imploring sufferings of the face, stole into 
his view. 

Hitherto I have ever held but lightly, thought Pierre, all 
stories of ghostly mysticalness in man ; my creed of this world 
leads me to believe in visible, beautiful flesh, and audible breath, 
however sweet and scented ; but only in visible flesh, and audi- 
ble breath, have I hitherto believed. But now ! — now ! — and 
again he would lose himself in the most surprising and preter- 
natural ponderings, which baffled all the introspective cunning 
of his mind. Himself was too much for himself. He felt that 
what he had always before considered the solid land of verita- 
ble reality, was now being audaciously encroached upon by ban- 
nered armies of hooded phantoms, disembarking in his soul, as 
from flotillas of specter-boats. 

The terrors of the face were not those of Gorgon ; not by re 
pelling hideousness did it smite him so ; but bewilderingly al- 
lured him, by its nameless beauty, and its long-suffering, hope- 
less anguish. 

But he was sensible that this general effect upon him, was 
also special ; the face somehow mystically appealing to his own 
private and individual affections ; and by a silent and tyrannic 
call, challenging him in his deepest moral being, and summon- 
ing Truth, Love, Pity, Conscience, to the stand. Apex of all 
wonders ! thought Pierre ; this indeed almost unmans me with 
its wonderfulness. Escape the face he could not. Muffling 
his own in his bed-clothes — that did not hide it. Flying from 
it by sunlight down the meadows, was as vain. 

Most miraculous of all to Pierre was the vague impression, 
that somewhere he had seen traits of the likeness of that face 


PIERRE. 


65 


before. But where, he could not say ; nor could he, in the re- 
motest degree, imagine. He was not unaware — ^for in one or 
two instances, he had experienced the fact — that sometimes a 
man may see a passing countenance in the street, which shall 
irresistibly and magnetically affect him, for a moment, as wholly 
unknown to him, and yet strangely reminiscent of some vague 
face he has previously encountered, in some fancied time, too, 
of extreme interest to his hfe. But not so was it now with 
Pierre. The face had not perplexed him for a few speculative 
minutes, and then glided from him, to return no more. It stayed 
close by him ; only — and not invariably — could he repel it, by 
the exertion of all his resolution and self-will. Besides, what 
of general enchantment lurked in his strange sensations, seemed 
concentringly condensed, and pointed to a spear-head, that 
pierced his heart with an inexplicable pang, whenever the spe- 
ciahzing emotion — to call it so — seized the possession of his 
thoughts, and waved into his visions, a thousand forms of by- 
gone times, and many an old legendary family scene, which he 
had heard related by his elderly relations, some of them now 
dead. 

Disguising his wild reveries as best he might from the notice 
of his mother, and all other persons of her household, for two 
days Pierre wrestled with his own haunted spirit ; and at last, 
so effectually purged it of all weirdnesses, and so effectually re- 
gained the general mastery of himself, that for a time, life went 
with him, as though he had never been stirred so strangely. 
Once more, the sweet unconditional thought of Lucy slid 
wholly into his soul, dislodging thence all such phantom occu- 
pants. Once more he rode, he walked, he swam, he vaulted; 
and with new zest threw himself into the glowing practice of 
all those manly exercises, he so dearly loved. It almost seemed 
in him, that ere promising forever to protect, as well as eter- 
nally to love, his Lucy, he must first completely invigorate and 
embrawn himself into the possession of such a noble muscular 


66 


PIERRE. 


manliness, that he might champion Lucy against the whole 
physical world. 

Still — even before the occasional reappearance of the face to 
him — Pierre, for all his willful ardor in his gymnasticals and 
other diversions, whether in-doors or out, or whether by book or 
foil ; still, Pierre could not but be secretly annoyed, and not a 
little perplexed, as to the motive, which, for the first time in his 
recollection, had impelled him, not merely to conceal from his 
mother a singular circumstance in his life (for that, he felt 
would have been but venial ; and besides, as will eventually be 
seen, he could find one particular precedent for it, in his past 
experience) but likewise, and superaddedly, to parry, nay, to 
evade, and, in effect, to return something alarmingly like a fib, 
to an explicit question put to him by his mother ; — such being 
the guise, in which part of the convereation they had had that 
eventful night, now appeared to his fastidious sense. He con- 
sidered also, that his evasive answer had not pantheistically 
burst from him in a momentary interregnum of self-command. 
ISTo ; his mother had made quite a lengthy speech to him ; 
during which he well remembered, he had been carefully, 
though with trepidation, turning over in his mind, how best he 
might recall her from her unwished-for and untimely scent. 
Why had this been so ? Was this his wont ? What inscru- 
table thing was it, that so suddenly had seized him, and made 
him a falsifyer — ay, a falsifyer and nothing less — to his own 
dearly-beloved, and confiding mother? Here, indeed, was 
something strange for him ; here was stuff* for his utmost ethi- 
cal meditations. But, nevertheless, on strict introspection, he 
felt, that he would not willingly have it otherwise ; not willing- 
ly would he now undissemble himself in this matter to his mo 
ther. Why was this, too ? Was this his wont ? Here, again, 
was food for mysticism. Here, in imperfect inklings, tinglings, 
presentiments, Pierre began to feel — what all mature men, who 
are Magians, sooner or later know, and more or less assuredly 


PIERRE. 


67 


— that not always in our actions, are we our own factors. But 
this conceit was very dim in Pierre ; and dimness is ever sus- 
picious and repugnant to us ; and so, Pierre shrank abhorringly 
from the infernal catacombs of thought, down into which, this 
foetal fancy beckoned him. Only this, though in secret, did 
he cherish ; only this, he felt persuaded of ; namely, that not 
for both worlds would he have his mother made a partner to 
his sometime mystic mood. 

But with this nameless fascination of the face upon him, 
during those two days that it had first and fully possessed him 
for its own, did perplexed Pierre refrain from that apparently 
most natural of all resources, — ^boldly seeking out, and return- 
ing to the palpable cause, and questioning her, by look or voice, 
or both together — the mysterious girl herself? No; not en- 
tirely did Pierre here refrain. But his profound curiosity and 
interest in the matter — strange as it may seem — did not so 
much appear to be embodied in the mournful person of the 
olive girl, as by some radiations from her, embodied in the 
vague conceits which agitated his own soul. There^ lurked the 
subtler secret : that^ Pierre had striven to tear away. From 
without, no wonderful effect is wrought within ourselves, unless 
some interior, responding wonder meets it. That the starry 
vault shall surcharge the heart with all rapturous marvelings, 
is only because we ourselves are greater miracles, and superber 
trophies than all the stars in universal space. Wonder inter- 
locks with wonder ; and then the confounding feeling comes. 
No cause have we to fancy, that a horse, a dog, a fowl, ever 
stand transfixed beneath yon skyey load of majesty. But our 
soul’s arches underfit into its ; and so, prevent the upper arch 
from falling on us with unsustainable inscrutableness. “ Ex- 
plain ye my deeper mystery,” said the shepherd Chaldean king, 
smiting his breast, lying on his back upon the plain ; “ and 
then, I will bestow all my wonderings upon ye, ye stately 
stars!” So, in some sort, with Pierre. Explain thou this 


68 


PIERRE. 


strange integral feeling in me myself, lie thought — turning 
upon the fancied face — and I will then renounce all other 
wonders, to gaze wonderingly at thee. But thou hast evoked 
in me profounder spells than the evoking one, thou face I For 
me, thou hast uncovered one infinite, dumb, beseeching coun- 
tenance of mystery, underlying all the surfaces of visible time 
and space. 

But during those two days of his first wild vassalage to his 
original sensations, Pierre had not been un visited by less mys- 
terious impulses. Two or three very plain and practical plan- 
nings of desirable procedures in reference to some possible 
homely explication of all this nonsense — so he would momen- 
tarily denominate it — now and then flittingly intermitted his 
pervading mood of semi-madness. Once he had seized his 
hat, careless of his accustomed gloves and cane, and found 
himself in the street, walking very rapidly in the direction of 
the Miss Pennies’. But whither now ? he disenchantingly in- 
terrogated himself. Where would you go ? A million to one, 
those deaf old spinsters can tell you nothing you burn to 
know. Deaf old spinsters are not used to be the depositaries 
of such mystical secrecies. But then, they may reveal her 
name — where she dwells, and something, however fragmentary 
and unsatisfactory, of who she is, and whence. Ay; but 
then, in ten minutes after your leaving them, all the houses in 
Saddle Meadows would be humming with the gossip of Pierre 
Glendinning engaged to marry Lucy Tartan, and yet running 
about the country, in ambiguous pursuit of strange young 
women. That will never do. You remember, do you not, 
often seeing the Miss Pennies, hatless and without a shawl, 
hurrying through the village, like two postmen intent on drop- 
ping some tit-bit of precious gossip ? What a morsel for them, 
Pierre, have you, if you now call upon them. Verily, their 
trumpets are both for use and for significance. Though very 


PIERRE. 


69 


deaf, the Miss Pennies are by no means dumb. They blazon 
very wide. 

“ Now be sure, and say that it was the Miss Pennies, who 
left the news — be sure — we — the Miss Pennies — remember — 
say to Ml'S. Glendinning it was we.” Such was the message 
that now half-humorousiy occuri’ed to Pierre, as having been 
once confided to him by the sister spinsters, one evening when 
they called with a choice present of some very recherche chit- 
chat for his mother ; but found the manorial lady out ; and so 
charged her son with it; hurrying away to all the inferior 
houses, so as not to be anywhere forestalled in their dis- 
closure. 

Now, I wish it had been any other house than the Miss 
Pennies ; any other house but theirs, and on my soul I believe 
I should have gone. But not to them — no, that I can not do. 
It would be sure to reach my mother, and then she would put 
this and that together — stir a little — let it simmer — and fare- 
well forever to all her majestic notions of my immaculate in- 
tegrity. Patience, Pierre, the population of this region is not 
so immense. No dense mobs of Nineveh confound all per- 
sonal identities in Saddle Meadows. Patience ; thou shalt see 
it soon again ; catch it passing thee in some green lane, sacred 
to thy evening reveries. She that bears it can not dwell 
remote. Patience, Pierre. Ever are such mysteries best and 
soonest unraveled by the eventual unraveling of themselves. 
Or, if you will, go back and get your gloves, and more especially 
your cane, and begin your own secret voyage of discovery after 
it. Your cane, I say ; because it will probably be a very long 
and weary walk. True, just now I hinted, that she that bears 
it can not dwell very remote ; but then her nearness may not be 
at all conspicuous. So, homeward, and put oflf thy hat, and 
let thy cane stay still, good Pierre. Seek not to mystify the 
mystery so. 

Thus, intermittingly, ever and anon during those sad two 


70 


PIERRE. 


days of deepest sufierance, Pierre would stand reasoning and 
expostulating with himself ; and by such meditative treatment, 
reassure his own spontaneous impulses. Doubtless, it was 
wise and right that so he did ; doubtless : but in a world so 
full of all dubieties as this, one -can never be entirely certain 
whether another person, however carefully and cautiously con- 
scientious, has acted in all respects conceivable for the very 
best. 

But when the two days were gone by, and Pierre began to 
recognize his former self, as restored to him from its mystic 
exile, then the thoughts of personally and pointedly seeking 
out the unknown, either preliminarily by a call upon the sister 
spinstei's, or generally by performing the observant lynx-eyed 
circuit of the country on foot, and as a crafty inquisitor, dissem- 
bling his cause of inquisition ; these and all similar intentions 
completely abandoned Pierre. 

He was now diligently striving, with all his mental might, 
forever to drive the phantom from him. He seemed to feel 
that it begat in him a certain condition of his being, which was 
most painful, and every way uncongenial to his natural, wonted 
self. It had a touch of he knew not what sort of unhealthiness 
in it, so to speak ; for, in his then ignorance, he could find no 
better term ; it seemed to have in it a germ of somewhat 
which, if not quickly extirpated, might insidiously poison and 
embitter his whole life — that choice, delicious life which he 
had vowed to Lucy foi* his one pure and comprehensive offer- 
ing — at once a sacrifice and a delight. 

Nor in these endeavorings did he entirely fail. For the 
most part, he felt now that he had a power over the comings 
and the goings of the face ; but not on all occasions. Some- 
times the old, original mystic tyranny would steal upon him ; 
the long, dark, locks of mournful hair would fall upon his 
soul, and trail their wonderful melancholy along with them ; 
the two full, steady, over-brimming eyes of loveliness and 


PIERRE. 


71 


anguish would converge their magic rays, till he felt them 
kindling he could not tell what mysterious fires in the heart at 
which they aimed. 

When once this feeling had him fully, then was the perilous 
time for Pierre. For supernatural as the feeling was, and ap- 
pealing to all things ultramontane to his soul ; yet was it a de- 
licious sadness to him. Some hazy fairy swam above him in 
the heavenly ether, and showered down upon him the sweetest 
pearls of pensiveness. Then he would be seized with a singu- 
lar impulse to reveal the secret to some one other individual in 
the world. Only one, not more ; he could not hold all this 
strange fullness in himself. It must be shared. In such an 
hour it was, that chancing to encounter Lucy (her, whom 
above all others, he did confidingly adore), she heard the story 
of the face ; nor slept at all that night ; nor for a long time 
freed her pillow completely from wild, Beethoven sounds of dis- 
tant, waltzing melodies, as of ambiguous fairies dancing on the 
heath. 


III. 

This history goes forward and goes backward, as occasion 
calls. Nimble center, circumference elastic you must have. 
Now we return to Pierre, wending homeward from his reveries 
beneath the pine-tree. 

His burst of impatience against the sublime Italian, Dante, 
arising from that poet being the one who, in a former time, 
had first opened to his shuddering eyes the infinite clifis and 
gulfs of human mystery and misery; — though still more in 
the way of experimental vision, than of sensational presenti- 
ment or experience (for as yet he had not seen so far and deep 
as Dante, and therefore was entirely incompetent to meet the 
grim bard fairly on his peculiar ground), this ignorant burst of 


72 


PIERRE. 


his young impatience, — also arising from that half contemptuous 
dislike, and sometimes selfish loathing, with which, either nat- 
urally feeble or undeveloped minds, regard those dark ravings 
of the loftier poets, which are in eternal opposition to their own 
fine-spun, shallow dreams of rapturous or prudential Youth ; — 
this rash, untutored burst of Pierre’s young impatience, seemed 
to have carried off with it, all the other forms of his melancholy 
— if melancholy it had been — and left him now serene again, 
and ready for any tranquil pleasantness the gods might have in 
store. For his, indeed, was true Youth’s temperament, — sum- 
mary with sadness, swift to joyfulness, and long protracting, 
and detaining with that joyfulness, when once it came fully 
nigh to him. 

As he entered the dining-hall, he saw Dates retiring fi*om 
another door with his tray. Alone and meditative, by the 
bared half of the polished table, sat his mother at her dessert ; 
fruit-baskets and a decanter were before her. On the other 
leaf of the same table, still lay the cloth, folded back upon it- 
self, and set out with one plate and its usual accompaniments. 

“ Sit down, Pierre ; when I came home, I was surprised to 
hear that the phaeton had returned so early, and here I waited 
dinner for you, until I could wait no more. But go to the green 
pantry now, and get what Dates has but just put away for you 
there. Heigh-ho ! too plainly I foresee it — ^no more regular 
dinner-houi-s, or tea-hours, or supper-horn’s, in Saddle Meadows, 
till its young lord is wedded. And that puts me in mind of 
something, Pierre ; but I’ll defer it till you have eaten a little. 
Do you know, Pierre, that if you continue these irregular meals 
of yours, and deprive me so entirely almost of your company, 
that I shall run fearful risk of getting to be a terrible wine-bib- 
ber ; — ^yes, could you unalarmed see me sitting all alone here 
with this decanter, like any old nurse, PieiTe ; some solitary, 
forlorn old nurse, PieiTe, deserted by her last fi-iend, and there- 
fore forced to embrace her flask ?” 


PIERRE. 


73 


“No, I did not feel any great alarm, sister,” said Pierre, 
smiling, “ since I could not but perceive that the decanter was 
still full to the stopple.” 

“ Possibly it may be only a fresh decanter, Pierre ;” then 
changing her voice suddenly — “ but mark me, Mr. Pien-e Glen- 
dinning !” 

“ Well, Mrs. Mary Glendinning !” 

“ Do you know, sir, that you are very shortly to be married, 
— that indeed the day is all but fixed ?” 

“ How !” cried Pierre, in real jojdul astonishment, both at the 
nature of the tidings, and the earnest tones in which they were 
conveyed — “ dear, dear mother, you have strangely changed 
your mind then, my dear mother.” 

“ It is even so, dear brother ; — before this day month I hope 
to have a little sister Tartan.” 

“ You talk very strangely, mother,” rejoined Pierre, quickly. 
“ I suppose, then, I have next to nothing to say in the matter ?” 

“ Next to nothing, Pierre ! What indeed could you say to 
the purpose ? what at all have you to do with it, I should like 
to know ? Do you so much as dream, you silly boy, that men 
ever have the marrying of themselves ? Juxtaposition marries 
men. There is but one match-maker in the world, Pierre, and 
that is Ml’S. Juxtaposition, a most notorious lady !” 

“ Very peculiar, disenchanting sort of talk, this, under the cir- 
cumstances, sister Mary,” laying down his fork. “Mrs. Juxta- 
position, ah ! And in your opinion, mother, does this fine glo- 
rious passion only amount to that ?” 

“Only to that, Pierre; but mark you: according to my 
creed — though this part of it is a little hazy — Mi-s. Juxtaposi- 
tion moves her pawns only as she herself is moved to so doing 
by the spirit.” 

“ Ah ! that sets it all right again,” said Pierre, resuming his 
fork — “ my appetite returns. But what was that about my be- 
ing married so soon ?” he added, vainly striving to assume an air 

D 


74 


PIE K E E. 


of incredulity and unconcern ; “ you were joking, I suppose ; it 
seems to me, sister, either you or I was but just now wandering 
in the mind a little, on that subject. Are you really think- 
ing of any such thing ? and have you really vanquished 
your sagacious scruples by yourself, after I had so long and in- 
effectually sought to do it for you ? Well, I am a million times 
delighted ; tell me quick !” 

“ I will, Pierre. You very well know, that from the first 
hour you appnsed me — or rathei?, from a period prior to that — 
from the moment that I, by my own insight, became aware of 
your love for Lucy, I have always approved it. Lucy is a de- 
licious girl ; of honorable descent, a fortune, well-bred, and the 
very pattern of all that I think amiable and attractive in a girl 
of seventeen.” 

“ Well, well, well,” cried Pierre rapidly and impetuously ; 
“ we both knew that before.” 

“ Well, well, well, Pierre,” retorted his mother, mockingly. 

“ It is not well, well, well ; but ill, ill, ill, to torture me so, 
mother ; go on, do !” 

“ But notwithstanding my admiring approval of your choice, 
PieiTe ; yet, as you know, I have resisted your entreaties for my 
consent to your speedy marriage, because I thought that a girl 
of scarcely seventeen, and a boy scarcely twenty, should not be 
in such a hurry ; — there was plenty of time, I thought, which 
could be profitably employed by both.” 

“ Permit me here to interrupt you, mother. Whatever you 
may have seen in me ; she, — I mean Lucy, — has never been in 
the slightest hurry to be married; — that’s all. But T shall re- 
gard it as a lapsus-lingua in you.” 

“ Undoubtedly, a lapsus. But listen to me. I have been 
carefully observing both you and Lucy of late ; and that has 
made me think further of the matter. Now, Pierre, if you 
were in any profession, or in any business at all ; nay, if I were 
a farmer’s wife, and you my child, working in my fields ; why. 


PIERRE. 


75 


then, you and Lucy should still wait awhile. But as you have 
nothing to do hut to think of Lucy by day, and dream of her 
by night, and as she is in the same predicament, I suppose; 
with respect to you ; and as ’the consequence of all this begins 
to be discernible in a certain, just perceptible, and quite harm- 
less thinness, so to speak, of the cheek ; but a very conspicuous 
and dangerous febrileness of the eye ; therefore, I choose the 
lesser of two evils ; and now you have my permission to be 
married, as soon as the thing can be done with propriety. I 
dare say you have no objection to have the wedding take place 
before Christmas, the present month being the first of summer.” 

Pierre said nothing ; but leaping to his feet, threw his two 
arms around his mother, and kissed her repeatedly. 

“ A most sweet and eloquent answer, Pierre ; but sit down 
again. I desire now to say a little concerning less attractive, 
but quite necessary things connected with this affair. You 
know, that by your father’s will, these lands and — ” 

“ Miss Lucy, my mistress said Dates, throwing open the 
door. 

Pierre sprang to his feet ; but as if suddenly mindful of his 
mother’s presence, composed himself again, though he still ap- 
proached the door. 

Lucy entered, carrying a little basket of strawberries. 

“ Why, how do you do, my dear,” said Mrs. Glendinning af- 
fectionately. “ This is an unexpected pleasure.” 

“ Yes ; and I suppose that Pierre here is a little surprised 
too ; seeing that he was to call upon me this evening, and not 
I upon him before sundown. But I took a sudden fancy for a 
solitary stroll, — ^the afternoon was such a delicious one ; and 
chancing — it was only chancing — to pass through the Locust 
Lane leading hither, I met the strangest little fellow, with this 
basket in his hand. — ‘ Yes, buy them, miss’ — said he. ‘ And 
how do you know I want to buy them,’ ^.returned I, ‘ I don’t 
want to buy them.’— ‘ Yes you do, miss; they ought to bo 


76 


PIEERE. 


twenty-six cents, but I’ll take thirteen cents, that being my 
shilling. I always want the odd half cent, I do. Come, I 
can’t wait, I have been expecting you long enough.’ ” 

“ A very sagacious little imp,” laughed Mrs. Glendinning. 

“ Impertinent little rascal,” cried Pierre. 

“ And am I not now the silhest of all silly girls, to be telling 
you my adventures so very frankly,” smiled Lucy. 

“ No ; but the most celestial of all innocents,” cried Pierre, 
in a rhapsody of delight. “ Frankly open is the flower, that 
hath nothing but purity to show.” 

“Now, my dear little Lucy,” said Mrs. Glendinning, “let 
Pierre take oflf your shawl, and come now and stay to tea with 
us. Pierre has put back the dinner so, the tea-hour will come 
now very soon.” 

“ Thank you ; but I can not stay this time. Look, I have 
forgotten my own errand ; I brought these strawberries for you, 
Mrs. Glendinning, and for Pierre ; — Pierre is so wonderfully 
fond of them.” 

“ I was audacious enough to think as much,” cried Pierre, 
“ for you and me, you see, mother ; for you and me, you un- 
derstand that, I hope.” 

“ Perfectly, my dear brother.” 

Lucy blushed. 

“ How warm it is, Mrs. Glendinning.” 

“ Very warm, Lucy. So you won’t stay to tea ?” 

“ No, I must go now ; just a little stroll, that’s all ; good- 
bye ! Now don’t be following me, Pierre. Mrs. Glendinning, 
will you keep Pierre back ? I know you want him ; you were 
talking over some private afiair when I entered ; you both 
looked so very confidential.” 

“ And you were not very far from right, Lucy,” said Mrs. 
Glendinning, making no sign to stay her departure. 

“ Yes, business of the highest importance,” said Pierre, fix- 
ing his eyes upon Lucy significantly. 


PIEEEE. 


77 


At this moment, Lucy just upon the point of her departure, 
was hovering near the door ; the setting sun, streaming through 
the window, bathed her whole form in golden loveliness and 
light ; that wonderful, and most vivid transparency of her clear 
Welsh complexion, now fairly glowed like rosy snow. Her 
flowing, white, blue-ribboned dress, fleecily invested her. 
Pierre almost thought that she could only depart the house 
by floating out of the open window, instead of actuajly step- 
ping from the door. All her aspect to him, was that moment 
touched with an indescribable gayety, buoyancy, fragility, and 
an unearthly evanescence. 

Youth is no philosopher. Not into young Pierre’s heart 
did there then come the thought, that as the glory of the 
rose endures but for a day, so the full bloom of girlish airiness 
and bewitchingness, passes from the earth almost as soon ; as 
jealously absorbed by those frugal elements, which again in- 
corporate that translated girlish bloom, into the first expanding 
flower-bud. Not into young Pierre, did there then steal that 
thought of utmost sadness ; pondering on the inevitable evanes- 
cence of all earthly loveliness; which makes the sweetest 
things of life only food for ever-devoui-ing and omnivorous 
melancholy. Pierre’s thought was difierent from this, and yet 
somehow akin to it. 

This to be my wife ? I that but the other day weighed an 
hundred and fifty pounds of solid avoirdupois ; — I to wed this 
heavenly fleece ? Methinks one husbandly embrace would break 
her airy zone, and she exhale upward to that heaven whence 
she hath hither come, condensed to mortal sight. It can not 
be ; I am of heavy earth, and she of airy light. By heaven, 
but marriage is an impious thing ! 

Meanwhile, as these things ran through his soul, Mrs. Glen- 
dinning also had thinkings of her own. 

“ A very beautiful tableau,” she cried, at last, artistically 
turning her gay head a little sideways — “ very beautiful, in- 


73 


PIERR fc 


deed ; this, I suppose is all premeditated for my entertainment. 
Orpheus finding his Eurydice ; or Pluto stealing Proserpine. 
Admirable ! It might almost stand for either.” 

“Ho,” said Pierre, gravely; “it is the last. Now, first I 
see a meaning there.” Yes, he added to himself inwardly, I 
am Pluto stealing Proserpine ; and every accepted lover is. 

“ And you would be very stupid, brother Pierre, if you did 
not see something there,” said his mother, still that way pur- 
suing her own different train of thought. “ The meaning 
thereof is this : Lucy has commanded me to stay you ; but in 
reality she wants you to go along with her. Well,, you may 
go as far as the porch ; but then, you must return, for we have 
not concluded our little affair, you know. Adieu, little lady !” 

There was ever a slight degree of affectionate patronizing in 
the manner of the resplendent, full-blown Mrs. Glendinning, 
toward the delicate and shrinking girlhood of young Lucy. 
She treated her very much as she might have treated some 
surpassingly beautiful and precocious child ; and this was pre- 
cisely what Lucy was. Looking beyond the present period, 
Mrs. Glendinning could not but perceive, that even in Lucy’s 
womanly maturity, Lucy would still be a child to her ; be- 
cause, she, elated, felt, that in a certain intellectual vigor, so to 
speak, she was the essential opposite of Lucy, whose sympa- 
thetic mind and person had both been cast in one mould of 
wondrous delicacy. But here Mrs. Glendinning was both right 
and wrong. So far as she here saw a difference between her- 
self and Lucy Tartan, she did not err ; but so far — and that 
was very far — as she thought she saw her innate superiority to 
her in the absolute scale of being, here she very widely and 
immeasurably erred. For what may be artistically styled an- 
gelicalness, this is the highest essence compatible with created 
being ; and angelicalness hath no vulgar vigor in it. And that 
thing which very often prompts to the display of any vigor — 
which thing, in man or woman, is at bottom nothing but am- 


PIERRE 


79 


bition — this quality is purely earthly, and not angelical. It is 
false, that any angels fell by reason of ambition. Angels never 
fall; and never feel ambition. Therefore, benevolently, and 
affectionately, and all-sincerely, as thy heart, oh, Mrs. Glen- 
dinning ! now standest affected toward the fleecy Lucy ; still, 
lady, thou dost very sadly mistake it, when the proud, double- 
arches of the bright breastplate of thy bosom, expand with 
secret triumph over one, whom thou so sweetly, but still so 
patronizingly stylest. The Little Lucy. 

But ignorant of these further insights, that very superb-look- 
ing lady, now waiting Pierre’s return from the portico door, sat 
in a very matronly revery ; her eyes fixed upon the decanter of 
amber-hued wine before her. Whether it was that she some- 
how saw some lurking analogical similitude between that re- 
markably slender, and gracefully cut little pint-decanter, brim- 
full of light, golden wine, or not, there is no absolute telling 
now. But really, the peculiarly, and reminiscently, and fore- 
castingly complacent expression of her beaming and benevolent 
countenance, seemed a tell-tale of some conceit very much like 
the following : — Yes, she’s a very pretty little pint-decanter of 
a girl : a very pretty little Pale Sherry pint-decanter of a girl ; 
and I — I’m a quart decanter of — of — Port — potent Port! 
Now, Sherry for boys, and Port for men — so I’ve heard men 
say ; and Pierre is but a boy ; but when his father wedded me, 
— why, his father was turned of five-and-thirty years. 

After a little further waiting for him, Mrs. Glendinning heard 
Pierre’s voice — “ Yes, before eight o’clock at least, Lucy — no 
fear and then the hall door banged, and Pierre returned to 
her. 

But now she found that this unforeseen visit of Lucy had 
completely routed all business capacity in her mercurial son ; 
fairly capsizing him again into, there was no telling what sea 
of pleasant pensiveness. 

“ Dear me ! some other time, sister Mary.” 


80 


PIE REE. 


“Not this time; that is very certain, Pierre. Upon my 
word I shall have to get Lucy kidnapped, and temporarily 
taken out of the country, and you handcuffed to the table, else 
there will be no having a preliminary understanding with you, 
previous to calling in the lawyers. Well, I shall yet manage 
you, one way or other. Good-bye, Pierre ; I see you don’t 
want me now. I suppose I shan’t see you till to-morrow morn- 
ing. Luckily, I have a very interesting book to read. Adieu !” 

But Pierre remained in his chair ; his gaze fixed upon the 
stilly sunset beyond the meadows, and far away to the now 
golden hills. A glorious, softly glorious, and most gracious 
evening, which seemed plainly a tongue to all humanity, say- 
ing : I go down in beauty to rise in joy ; Love reigns through- 
out all worlds that sunsets visit ; it is a foolish ghost story ; 
there is no such thing as misery. Would Love, which is om- 
nipotent, have misery in his domain ? Would the god of sun- 
light decree gloom ? It is a flawless, speckless, fleckless, beau- 
tiful world throughout ; joy now, and joy forever ! 

Then the face, which before had seemed mournfully and re- 
proachfully looking out upon him from the effulgent sunset’s 
heart ; the face , slid from him ; and left alone there with his 
soul’s joy, thinking that that very night he would utter the 
magic word of marriage to his Lucy ; not a happier youth than 
Pierre Glendinning sat watching that day’s sun go down. 


IV. 

After this morning of gayety, this noon of tragedy, and this 
evening so full of chequered pensiveness ; Pierre now possessed 
his soul in joyful mildness and steadfastness ; feeling none of 
that wild anguish of anticipative rapture, which, in weaker 
minds, too often dislodges Love’s sweet bird from her nest. 


PIERRE. 


81 


The early night was warai, hut dai’k — for the moon was not 
risen yet — and as Pierre passed on beneath the pendulous can- 
opies of the long arms of the weeping elms of the village, an 
almost impenetrable blackness surrounded him, but entered not 
the gently illuminated halls of his heart. He had not gone 
very far, when in the distance beyond, he noticed a light mov- 
ing along the opposite side of the road, and slowly approach 
ing. As it was the custom for some of the more elderly, and 
perhaps timid inhabitants of the village, to carry a lantern 
when going abroad of so dark a night, this object conveyed no 
impression of novelty to Pierre ; still, as it silently drew nearer 
and nearer, the one only distinguishable thing before him, he 
somehow felt a nameless presentiment that the light must be 
seeking him. He had nearly gained the cottage door, when 
the lantern crossed over toward him ; and as his nimble hand 
was laid at last upon the little wicket-gate, which he thought 
was now to admit him to so much delight ; a heavy hand was 
laid upon himself, and at the same moment, the lantern was 
lifted toward his face, by a hooded and obscure-looking figure, 
whose half-averted countenance he could but indistinctly dis- 
cern. But Pierre’s own open aspect, seemed to have been 
quickly scrutinized by the other. 

“ I have a letter for Pierre Glendinning,” said the stranger, 
“ and I believe this is he.” At the same moment, a letter was 
drawn forth, and sought his hand. 

“ For me !” exclaimed Pierre, faintly, starting at the strange- 
ness of the encounter ; — “ methinks this is an odd time and 
place to deliver your mail ; — ^who are you ? — Stay !” 

But without waiting an answer, the messenger had already 
turned about, and was re-crossing the road. In the first im* 
pulse of the moment, Pierre stept forward, and would have 
pursued him ; but smiling at his own causeless curiosity and 
trepidation, paused again ; and softly turned over the letter in 
his hand. What mysterious correspondent is this, thought he. 


82 


PI ERKE* 


circularly moving his thumb upon the seal ; no one writes me 
but from abroad ; and their letters come through the office ; 
and as for Lucy — pooh ! — when she herself is within, she would 
hardly have her notes delivered at her own gate. Strange! 
but ril in, and read it no, not that — I come to mad again 
in her own sweet heart — that dear missive to me from heaven, 
— and this impertinent letter would pre-occupy me. I’ll wait 
till I go home. 

He entered the gate, and laid his hand upon the cottage 
knocker. Its sudden coolness caused a slight, and, at any other 
time, an unaccountable sympathetic sensation in his hand. To 
his unwonted mood, the knocker seemed to say — “ Enter not ! 
— ^Begone, and first read thy note.” 

Yielding now, half alaimed, and half bantering with himself, 
to these shadowy interior monitions, he half-unconsciously 
quitted the door ; repassed the gate ; and soon found himself 
retracing his homeward path. 

He equivocated -with himself no more ; the gloom of the air 
had now burst into his heart, and extinguished its light ; then, 
first in all his life, Pierre felt the irresistible admonitions and 
intuitions of Fate. 

He entered the hall unnoticed, passed up to his chamber, 
and hurriedly locking the door in the dark, lit his lamp. As 
the summoned flame illuminated the room, Pierre, standing 
before the round center-table, where the lamp was placed, with 
his hand yet on the brass circle which regulated the wick, 
started at a figure in the opposite mirror. It bore the outline 
of Pierre, but now strangely filled with features transformed, 
and unfamiliar to him ; feverish eagerness, fear, and nameless 
forebodings of ill 1 He threw himself into a chair, and for a 
time vainly struggled with the incomprehensible power that 
possessed him. Then, as he avertedly drew the letter from 
his bosom, he whispered to himself— Out on thee, Pierre I how 
sheepish now will ye feel when this tremendous note will turn 


PIERRE. 


88 


out to be an invitation to a supper to-morrow night ; quick, 
fool, and write the stereotyped reply : Mr. Pierre Glendinning 
will be very happy to accept Miss so and so’s polite invitation. 

Still for the moment he held the letter averted. The mes- 
senger had so hurriedly accosted him, and delivered his duty^ 
that Pierre had not yet so much as gained one glance at thq 
superscription of the note. And now the wild thought passed' 
through his mind of what would be the result, should he de- 
liberately destroy the note, without so much as looking at the 
hand that had addressed it. Hardly had this half-crazy com 
ceit fully made itself legible in his soul, when he was conscious 
of his two hands meeting in the middle of the sundered note ! 
He leapt from his chair — By heaven ! he murmured, unspeak- 
ably shocked at the intensity of that mood which had caused 
him unwittingly as it were, to do for the first time in his whole 
life, an act of which he was privately ashamed. Though the 
mood that was on him was none of his own willful seeking ; 
yet now he swiftly felt conscious that he 'had perhaps a little 
encouraged it, through that certain strange infatuation of fond- 
ness, which the human mind, however vigorous, sometimes 
feels for any emotion at once novel and mystical. Not wil- 
lingly, at such times — never mind how fearful we may be — do 
we try to dissolve the spell which seems, for the time, to 
admit us, all astonished, into the vague vestibule of the spiritual 
worlds. 

Pierre now seemed distinctly to feel two antagonistic agen- 
cies within him; one of which was just struggling into his 
consciousness, and each of which was striving for the mastery ; 
and between whose respective final ascendencies, he thought he 
could perceive, though but shadowly, that he himself was to be 
the only umpire. One bade him finish the selfish destruction 
of the note ; for in some dark way the reading of it would irre- 
trievably entangle his fate. The other bade him dismiss all 
misgivings; not because there was no possible ground for 


84 


PIERRE. 


them, but because to dismiss them was the manlier part, never 
mind what might betide. This good angel seemed mildly to 
say — Read, Pierre, though by reading thou may’st entangle 
thyself, yet may’st thou thereby disentangle others. Read, 
and feel that best blessedness which, with the sense of all duties 
discharged, holds happiness indifferent. The bad angel insinu- 
atingly breathed — ^Read it not, dearest Pierre ; but destroy it, 
and be happy. Then, at the blast of his noble heart, the bad 
angel shrunk up into nothingness ; and the good one defined 
itself clearer and more clear, and came nigher and more nigh 
to him, smiling sadly but benignantly ; while forth from the 
infinite distances wonderful harmonies stole into his heart ; so 
that every vein in him pulsed to some heavenly swell. 


y. 

“ The name at the end of this letter will be wholly strange 
to thee. Hitherto my existence has been utterly unknown 
to thee. This letter will touch thee and pain thee. Wil- 
lingly would I spare thee, but I can not. My heart bears me 
witness, that did I think that the suffering these lines would 
give thee, would, in the faintest degree, compare with what 
mine has been, I would forever withhold them. 

Pierre Glendinning, thou art not the only child of thy father ; 
in the eye of the sun, the hand that traces this is thy sister’s ; 
yes, Pierre, Isabel calls thee her brother — her brother! oh, 
sweetest of words, which so often I have thought to myself, 
and almost deemed it profanity for an outcast like me to speak 
or think. Dearest Pierre, my brother, my own father’s child 1 
art thou an angel, that thou canst overleap all the heartless 
usages and fashions of a banded world, that will call thee fool, 
fool, fool ! and cui’se thee, if thou yieldest to that heavenly im- 


PIEREE. 


85 


pulse which alone can lead thee-. to respond to the long tyranniz- 
ing, and now at last unquenchable yearnings of my bursting 
heart ? Oh, my brother ! 

But, Pierre Glendinning, I will be proud with thee. Let not 
my hapless condition extinguish in me, the nobleness which I 
equally inherit with thee. Thou shalt not be cozened, by my 
tears and my anguish, into any thing which thy most sober hour 
will repent. Bead no further. If it suit thee, burn this letter ; 
so shalt thou escape the certainty of that knowledge, which, if 
thou art now cold and selfish, may hereafter, in some maturer, 
remorseful, and helpless hour, cause thee a poignant upbraid- 
ing. No, I shall not, I will not implore thee. — Oh, my brother, 
my dear, dear Pierre, — ^help me, fly to me ; see, I perish with- 
out thee ; — ^pity, pity, — here I freeze in the wide, wide world ; 
— ^no father, no mother, no sister, no brother, no living thing in 
the fair form of humanity, that holds me dear. No more, oh 
no more, dear Pierre, can I endure to be an outcast in the 
world, for which the dear Savior died. Fly to me, Pierre ; — 
nay, I could tear what I now write, — as I have torn so many 
other sheets, all written for thy eye, but which never reached 
thee, because in my distraction, I knew not how to write to 
thee, nor what to say to thee ; and so, behold again how I 
rave. 

Nothing more ; I will write no more ; — silence becomes this 
grave ; — the heart-sickness steals over me, Pierre, my brother. 

Scarce know I what I have vmtten. Yet will I write thee 
the fatal line, and leave all the rest to thee, Pierre, my brother. 
— She that is called Isabel Banford dwells in the little red farm- 
house, three miles from the village, on the slope toward the 
lake. To-mon’ow night-fall — not before — ^not by day, not by 
day, Pierre. 


Thy Sister, Isabel.” 


86 


PI E RE E. 


YI. 

This letter, inscribed in a feminine, but iiTegular hand, and 
in some places almost illegible, plainly attesting the state of the 
mind which had dictated it; — stained, too, here and there, with 
spots of tears, which chemically acted upon by the ink, assumed 
a strange and reddish hue — as if blood and not teai*s had drop- 
ped upon the sheet ; — and so completely torn in two by Pierre’s 
own hand, that it indeed seemed the fit scroll of a torn, as well 
as bleeding heart ; — ^this amazing letter, deprived PieiTe for the 
time of all lucid and definite thought or feeling. He hung 
half-lifeless in his chair; his hand, clutching the letter, was 
pressed against his heart, as if some assassin had stabbed him 
and fled ; and Pierre was now holding the dagger in the wound, 
to stanch the outgushing of the blood. 

Ay, Pierre, now indeed art thou hurt with a wound, never to 
be completely healed but in heaven ; for thee, the before undis- 
trusted moral beauty of the world is forever fled ; for thee, thy 
sacred father is no more a saint ; all brightness hath gone from 
thy hills, and all peace from thy plains ; and now, now, for the 
first time, Pierre, Truth rolls a black billow through thy soul ! 
Ah, miserable thou, to whom Truth, in her fii-st tides, bears 
nothing but wrecks ! 

The perceptible forms of things ; the shapes of thoughts ; the 
pulses of life, but slowly came back to Pierre. And as the 
mariner, shipwrecked and cast on the beach, has much ado to 
escape the recoil of the wave that hurled him there ; so Pierre 
long struggled, and struggled, to escape the recoil of that an- 
guish, which had dashed him out of itself, upon the beach of 
his swoon. 

But man was not made to succumb to the villain Woe. 
Youth is not young and a wrestler in vain. Pierre stagger- 


PIERRE. 


87 


ingly rose to his feet ; his wide eyes fixed, and his whole form 
in a tremble. 

“Myself am left, at least,” he slowly and half-chokingly 
murmured. “ With myself I front thee ! Unhand me all 
fears, and unlock me all spells! Henceforth I will know 
nothing but Truth ; glad Ti'uth, or sad Truth ; I will know 
what is, and do what my deepest angel dictates. — ^The letter ! — 
Isabel, — sister, — brother, — me, me — my sacred father! — This 
is some accursed dream ! — ^nay, but this paper thing is forged, 
— a base and malicious forgery, I swear ; — Well didst thou hide 
thy face fi’om me, thou vile lanterned messenger, that didst 
accost me on the threshold of Joy, with this lying warrant of 
Woe ! Doth Truth come in the dark, and steal on us, and rob 
us so, and then depart, deaf to all pursuing invocations ? If 
this night, which now wraps my soul, be genuine as that which 
now wraps this half of the world ; then Fate, I have a choice 
quarrel with thee. Thou art a palterer and a cheat ; thou hast 
lured me on through gay gardens to a gulf. Oh ! falsely guided 
in the days of my Joy, am I now truly led in this night of my 
grief? — I will be a raver, and none shall stay me ! I will lift 
my hand in fury, for am I not struck ? I will be bitter in my 
breath, for is not this cup of gall ? Thou Black Knight, that 
with visor down, thus confrontest me, and mockest at me; 
Lo ! I strike through thy helm, and will see thy face, be it 
Gorgon ! — Let me go, ye fond affections ; all piety leave me ; — 
I will be impious, for piety hath juggled me, and taught me to 
revere, where I should spurn. From all idols, I tear all veils ; 
henceforth I will see the hidden things ; and live right out in 
my own hidden life ? — Now I feel that nothing but Truth can 
move me so. This letter is not a forgery. Oh ! Isabel, thou 
art my sister ; and I will love thee, and protect thee, ay, and 
own thee through all. Ah ! forgive me, ye heavens, for my 
ignorant ravings, and accept this my vow. — Here I swear my- 
self Isabel’s. Oh ! thou poor castaway girl, that in loneliness 


88 


PIERRE. 


and anguish must have long breathed that same air, which I 
have only inhaled for delight ; thou who must even now be 
weeping, and weeping, cast into an ocean of uncertainty as to 
thy fate, which heaven hath placed in my hands ; sweet Isabel ! 
would I not be baser than brass, and harder, and colder than 
ice, if I could be insensible to such claims as thine ? . Thou 
mo vest before me, in rainbows spun of thy tears ! I see thee 
long weeping, and God demands me for thy comforter ; and 
comfort thee, stand by thee, and fight for thee, will thy leap- 
ingly-acknowledging brother, whom thy own father named 
Pierre !” 

He could not stay in his chamber : the house contracted to a 
nut-shell around him ; the walls smote his forehead ; bare- 
headed he rushed from the place, and only in the infinite air, 
found scope for that boundless expansion of his life. 


BOOK IV. 


RETROSPECTIVE. 


I. 

In their precise tracings-out and subtile causations, the strong- 
est and fieriest emotions of life defy all analytical insight. We 
see the cloud, and feel its ^olt ; but meteorology only idly es- 
says a critical scrutiny as to how that cloud became charged, 
and how this bolt so stuns. The metaphysical writers confess, 
that the most impressive, sudden, and overwhelming event, as 
well as the minutest, is but the product of an infinite series of 
infinitely involved and untraceable foregoing occurrences. Just 
so with every motion of the heart. Why this cheek kindles 
with a noble enthusiasm ; why that lip curls in scorn ; these 
are things not wholly imputable to the immediate apparent 
cause, which is only one link in the chain ; but to a long line 
of dependencies whose further part is lost in the mid-regions of 
the impalpable air. 

Idle then would it be to attempt by any winding way so to 
penetrate into the heart, and memory, and inmost life, and na- 
ture of Pierre, as to show why it was that a piece of intelli- 
gence which, in the natural coui-se of things, many amiable 
gentlemen, both young and old, have been known to receive 
with a momentary feeling of surprise, and then a little curiosity 
to know more, and at last an entire unconcern ; idle would it 
be, to attempt to show how to Pierre it rolled down on his soul 


90 


PIEERE. 


like melted lava, and left so deep a deposit of desolation, that 
all his subsequent endeavors never restored the original temples 
to the soil, nor all his culture completely revived its buried 
bloom. 

But some random hints may suffice to deprive a little of its 
strangeness, that tumultuous mood, into which so small a note 
had thrown him. 

There had long stood a shrine in the fresh-foliaged heart of 
Pierre, up to which he ascended by many tableted steps of re- 
membrance; and around which annually he had hung fresh 
wreaths of a sweet and holy affection. Made one gi’een bower 
of at last, by such successive votive offerings of his being ; this 
shrine seemed, and was indeed, a place for the celebration of a 
chastened joy, rather than for any melancholy rites. But 
though thus mantled, and tangled with garlands, this shrine 
was of marble — a niched pillar, deemed solid and eternal, and 
from whose top radiated all those innumerable sculptured scrolls 
and branches, which supported the entire one-pillared temple 
of his moral life ; as in some beautiful gothic oratories, one cen- 
tral pillar, trunk-like, upholds the roof. In this shrine, in this 
niche of this pillar, stood the perfect marble form of his depart- 
ed father ; without blemish, unclouded, snow-white, and serene ; 
Pierre’s fond personification of perfect human goodness and vir- 
tue. Before this shrine, Pierre poured out the fullness of all 
young life’s most reverential thoughts and beliefs. Not to God 
had Pierre ever gone in his heart, unless by ascending the steps 
of that shrine, and so making it the vestibule of his abstractest 
religion. 

Blessed and glorified in his tomb beyond Prince Mausolus is 
that mortal sire, who, after an honorable, pure course of life, 
dies, and is buried, as in a choice fountain, in the filial breast of 
a tender-hearted and intellectually appreciative child. For at 
that period, the Solomonic insights have not poured their turbid 
tributaries into the pure-flowing well of the childish life. Rare 


PI EEEE. 


91 


preservative virtue, too, have those heavenly waters. Thrown 
into that fountain, all sweet recollections become marbleized ; 
so that things which in themselves were evanescent, thus be- 
came unchangeable and eternal. So, some rare waters in Der- 
byshire will petrify birds’-nests. But if fate preserves the father 
to a later time, too often the filial obsequies are less profound ; 
the canonization less ethereal. The eye-expanded boy perceives, 
or vaguely thinks he perceives, slight specks and flaws in the 
character he once so wholly reverenced. 

When Pierre was twelve years old, his father had died, leav- 
ing behind him, in the general voice of the world, a marked 
reputation as a gentleman and a Christian ; in the heart of his 
wife, a green memory of many healthy days of unclouded and 
joyful wedded life, and in the inmost soul of Pierre, the im- 
pression of a bodily form of rare manly beauty and benignity, 
only rivaled by the supposed perfect mould in which his vir- 
tuous heart had been cast. Of pensive evenings, by the wide 
winter fire, or in summer,. in the southern piazza, when that 
mystical night-silence so peculiar to the country would summon 
up in the minds of Pierre and his mother, long trains of the 
images of the past ; leading all that spiritual procession, majes- 
tically and holily walked the venerated form of the departed 
husband and father. Then their talk would be reminiscent and 
serious, but sweet ; ' and again, and again, still deep and deeper, 
was stamped in Pierre’s soul the cherished conceit, that his vir- 
tuous father, so beautiful on earth, was now uncorruptibly 
sainted in heaven. So choicely, and in some degree, secludedly 
nurtured, Pierre, though now arrived at the age of nineteen, 
had never yet become so thoroughly initiated into that darker, 
though truer aspect of things, which an entire residence in the 
city from the earliest period of life, almost inevitably engraves 
upon the mind of any keenly observant and reflective youth of 
Pierre’s present years. So that up to this period, in his breast, 
all remained as it had been ; and to Pierre, his father’s shrine 


92 


PIERRE. 


seemed spotless, and still new as the marble of the tomb of him 
of Arimathea. 

Judge, then, how all-desolating and withering the blast, that 
for Pierre, in one night, stripped his holiest shrine of all over- 
laid bloom, and buried the mild statue of the saint beneath th^ 
prostrated ruins of the soul’s temple itself. 


II. 

As the vine flourishes, and the grape empurples close up to 
the very walls and muzzles of cannoned Ehrenbreitstein ; so do 
the sweetest joys of life grow in the very jaws of its perils. 

But is life, indeed, a thing for all infidel levities, and we, its 
misdeemed beneficiaries, so utterly fools and infatuate, that 
what we take to be our strongest tower of delight, only stands 
at the caprice of the minutest event — the falling of a leaf, the 
hearing of a voice, or the receipt of one little bit of paper 
scratched over with a few small characters by a shai-pened 
feather ? Are we so entirely insecure, that that casket, wherein 
we have placed our holiest and most final joy, and which we 
have secured by a lock of infinite deftness ; can that casket be 
picked and desecrated at the merest stranger’s touch, when we 
think that we alone hold the only and chosen key ? 

Pierre ! thou art foolish ; rebuild — no, not that, for thy 
shrine still stands ; it stands, Pierre, firmly stands ; smellest 
thou not its yet undeparted, embowering bloom ? Such a note 
as thine can be easily enough written, Pierre ; impostors are 
not unknown in this curious world ; or the brisk novelist, 
Pierre, will write thee fifty such notes, and so steal gushing 
tears from his reader’s eyes ; even as thy note so strangely 
made thine own manly eyes so arid ; so glazed, and so arid, 
Pierre — ^foolish Pierre ! 


PIERRE. 


98 


Oh ! mock not the poniarded heart. The stabbed man 
knows the steel ; prate not to him that it is only a tickling 
feather. Feels he not the interior gash ? What does this 
blood on my vesture ? and what does this pang in my soul ? 

And here again, not unreasonably, might invocations go up 
to those Three Weird Ones, that tend Life’s loom. Again we 
might ask them. What threads were those, oh, ye Weird Ones, 
that ye wove in the yeara foregone ; that now to Pien*e, they so 
unerringly conduct electric presentiments, that his woe is woe, 
his father no more a saint, and Isabel a sister indeed ? 

Ah, fathers and mothere ! all the world round, be heedful, — 
give heed ! Thy little one may not now comprehend the 
meaning of those words and those signs, by which, in its in- 
nocent presence, thou thinkest to disguise the sinister thing ye 
would hint. Hot now he knows ; not very much even of the 
externals he consciously remarks ; but if, in after-life. Fate puts 
the chemic key of the cipher into his hands ; then how swiftly 
and how wonderfully, he reads all the obscurest and most ob- 
literate inscriptions he finds in his memory; yea, and rum- 
mages himself all over, for still hidden writings to read. Oh, 
darkest lessons of Life have thus been read ; all faith in Virtue 
been murdered, and youth gives itself up to an infidel scorn. 

But not thus, altogether, was it now with Pierre ; yet so 
like, in some points, that the above true warning may not mis- 
placedly stand. 

His father had died of a fever ; and, as is not uncommon 
in such maladies, toward his end, he at intervals lowly wan- 
dered in his mind. At such times, by unobserved, but subtle 
arts, the devoted family attendants, had restrained his wife from 
being present at his side. But little Pierre, whose fond, filial 
love drew him ever to that bed ; they heeded not innocent 
little Pierte, when his father was delirious ; and so, one evening, 
when the shadows intermingled with the curtains ; and all the 
chamber was hushed ; and Pierre but dimly saw his father’s 


PIERBE. 


n 


face ; and the fire on the hearth lay in a broken temple of 
wonderful coals ; then a strange, plaintive, infinitely pitiable, 
low voice, stole forth from the testered bed ; and Pierre heard, 
— “ My daughter ! my daughter !” 

“ He wanders again,” said the nurse. 

“ Dear, dear father !” sobbed the child— thou hast not a 
daughter, but here is thy own little Pierre.” 

But again the unregardful voice in the bed was heard ; and 
now in a sudden, pealing wail, — “ My daughter ! — God ! God ! 
— my daughter 1” 

The child snatched the dying man’s hand ; it faintly grew 
to his grasp ; but on the other side of the bed, the other hand 
now also emptily lifted itself, and emptily caught, as if at some 
other childish fingers. Then both hands dropped on the sheet ; 
and in the twinkling shadows of the evening little Pierre 
seemed to see, that while the hand which he held wore a faint, 
feverish flush, the other empty one was ashy white as a 
leper’s. 

“ It is past,” whispered the nui-se, “ he will wander so no more 
now till midnight, — that is his wont.” And then, in her heart, 
she wondered how it was, that so excellent a gentleman, and 
so thoroughly good a man, should wander so ambiguously in 
his mind ; and trembled to think of that mysterious thing in 
the soul, which seems to acknowledge no human jurisdiction, 
but in spi^ of the individual’s own innocent self, will still 
dream horrid dreams, and mutter unmentionable thoughts; 
and into Pierre’s awe-stricken, childish soul, there entered a 
kindred, though still more nebulous conceit. But it belonged 
to the spheres of the impalpable ether; and the child soon 
threw other and sweeter remembrances over it, and covered it 
up ; and at last, it was blended with all other dim things, and 
imaginings of dimness ; and so, seemed to survive to no real 
life in Pierre. But though through many long years the hen- 
bane showed no leaves in his soul ; yet the sunken seed was 


PIERRE. 


95 


there: and the first glimpse of Isabel’s letter caused it to 
spring forth, as by magic. Then, again, the long-hushed, plain- 
tive and infinitely pitiable voice was heard, — “ My daughter ! 
my daughter !” followed by the compunctious “ God ! God !” 
And to Pierre, once again the empty hand lifted itself, and 
once again the ashy hand fell. 


in. 

In the cold courts of justice the dull head demands oaths, 
and holy writ proofs ; but in the warm halls of the heart one 
single, untestified memory’s spark shall suffice to 'enkindle such 
a blaze of evidence, that all the corners of conviction are as 
suddenly lighted up as a midnight city by a burning building, 
which on every side whirls its reddened brands. 

In a locked, round-windowed closet connecting with the 
chamber of Pierre, and whither he had always been wont to go, 
in those sweetly awful hours, when the spirit crieth to the 
sphit. Come into solitude with me, twin-brother ; come away : 
a secret have I ; let me whisper it to thee aside ; in this closet, 
sacred to the Tadmore privacies and repose of the sometimes 
solitary Pierre, there hung, by long cords from the cornice, a 
small portrait in oil, before which Pierre had many a time 
trancedly stood. Had this painting hung in any annual public 
exhibition, and in its turn been described in print by the casual 
glancing critics, they would probably have described it thus, 
and truthfully : “ An impromptu portrait of a fine-looking, gay- 
hearted, youthful gentleman. He is lightly, and, as it were, 
au’ily and but grazingly seated in, or rather flittingly tenanting 
an old-fashioned chair of Malacca. One arm confining his hat 
and cane is loungingly thrown over the back of the chair, while 
the fingers of the other hand play with his gold watch-seal 


96 


PIERRE. 


and key. The free-templed head is sideways turned, with a 
peculiarly bright, and care-free, morning expression. He seems 
as if just dropped in for a visit upon some familiar acquaint- 
ance. Altogether, the painting is exceedingly clever and cheer- 
ful ; with a fine, off-handed expression about it. Undoubtedly 
a portrait, and no fancy-piece ; and, to hazard a vague con- 
jecture, by an amateur. ” 

So bright, and so cheerful then ; so trim, and so young ; so 
singularly healthful, and liandsome ; what subtile element 
could so steep this whole portrait, that, to the wife of the origi- 
nal, it was namelessly unpleasant and repelling ? The mother 
of Pierre could never abide this picture which she had always 
asserted did signally belie her husband. Her fond memories 
of the departed refused to hang one single wreath around it. 
It is not he, she would emphatically and almost indignantly 
exclaim, when more urgently besought to reveal the cause for 
so unreasonable a dissent from the opinion of nearly all the 
other connections and relatives of the deceased. But the por- 
trait which she held to do justice to her husband, correctly to 
convey his features in detail, and more especially their truest, 
and finest, and noblest combined expression ; this portrait was 
a much larger one, and in the great drawing-room below occu- 
pied the most conspicuous and honorable place on the wall. 

Even to Pierre these two paintings had always seemed 
strangely dissimilar. And as the larger one had been painted 
many yeai-s after the other, and therefore brought the original 
pretty nearly within his own childish recollections ; therefore, 
he himself could not but deem it by far the more truthful and 
life-like presentation of his father. So that the mere prefer- 
ence of his mother, however strong, was not at all surprising 
to him, but rather coincided with his own conceit. Yet not 
for this, must the other portrait be so decidedly rejected. Be- 
cause, in the firat place, there was a difference in time, and 
some difference of costume to be considered, and the wide 


PIERRE. 


97 


difference of the styles of the respective artists, and the wide 
difference of those respective, semi-reflected, ideal faces, which, 
even in the presence of the original, a spiritual artist will 
rather choose to draw from than from the fleshy face, however 
brilliant and fine. Moreover, while the larger portrait was that 
of a middle-aged, married man, and seemed to possess all the 
nameless and slightly portly tranquillities, incident to that condi- 
tion when a felicitoiuj one ; the smaller portrait painted a brisk, 
unentangled, young bachelor, gayly ranging up and down in 
the world ; light-hearted, and a very little bladish perhaps ; 
and charged to the lips with the first uncloying morning full- 
ness and freshness of life. Here, certainly, large allowance was 
to be made in any careful, candid estimation of these por- 
traits. To Pierre this conclusion had become well-nigh irre- 
sistible, when he placed side by side two portraits of himself ; 
one taken in his early childhood, a frocked and belted boy of 
four years old ; and the other, a grown youth of sixteen. Ex- 
cept an indestructible, all-surviving something in the eyes and 
on the temples, Pierre could hardly recognize the loud-laugh- 
ing boy in the tall, and pensively smiling youth. If a few 
years, then, can have in me made all this difterence, why not 
in my father ? thought Pierre. 

Besides all this, Pien-e considered the history, and, so to 
speak, the family legend of the smaller painting. In his fif- 
teenth year, it was made a present to him by an old maiden 
aunt, who resided in the city, and who cherished the memory 
of Pierre’s father, with all that wonderful amaranthine devotion 
which an advanced maiden sister ever feels for the idea of a be- 
loved younger brother, now dead and iiTevocably gone. As 
the only child of that brother, Pierre was an object of the 
warmest and most extravagant attachment on the part of this 
lonely aunt, who seemed to see, transformed into youth once 
again, the likeness, and very soul of her brother, in the fair, in- 
heriting brow of Pierre. Though the portrait we speak of was 

E 


98 


PIE RE E. 


inordinately prized by her, yet at length the strict canon of her 
romantic and imaginative love asserted the portrait to be 
Pierre’s — for Pierre was not only his father’s only child, but his 
namesake — so soon as Pierre should be old enough to value 
aright so holy and inestimable a treasure. She had accord- 
ingly sent it to him, trebly boxed, and finally covered with a 
water-proof cloth ; and it was delivered at Saddle Meadows, by 
an express, confidential messenger, an old gentleman of leisure, 
once her forlorn, because rejected gallant, but now her content- 
ed, and chatty neighbor. Henceforth, before a gold-framed 
and gold-lidded ivory miniature, — a fraternal gift — aunt Doro- 
thea now offered up her morning and her evening rites, to the 
memory of the noblest and handsomest of brothers. Yet an 
annual visit to the far closet of Pierre — no slight undertaking 
now for one so stricken in years, and every way infirm — at- 
tested the earnestness of that strong sense of duty, that pamful 
renunciation of self, which had induced her voluntarily to part 
with the precious memorial. 


lY. 

“ Tell me, aunt,” the child Pierre had early said to her, 
long before the portrait became his — “ tell me, aunt, how this 
chair-portrait, as you call it, was painted ; — who painted it ? — 
whose chair was this ? — have you the chair now' ? — I don’t see 
it in your room here ; — what is papa looking at so strangely ? — 
I should like to know now, what papa was thinking of, then. 
Do, now, dear aunt, tell me all about this picture, so that when 
it is mine, as you promise me, I shall know its whole history.” 

“ Sit down, then, and be very still and attentive, my dear 
.child,” said aunt Dorothea ; while she a little averted her head, 
Jind tremulously and inaccurately sought her pocket, till little 


PIERRE. 


99 


Pierre cried — “Why, aunt, the story of the picture is not in 
any little book, is it, that you are going to take out and read 
to me ?” 

“ My handkerchief, my child.” 

“ Why, aunt, here it is, at your elbow ; here, on the table i 
here, aunt ; take it, do ; Oh, don’t tell me any thing about the 
picture, now ; I won’t hear it.” 

“ Be still, my darling Pierre,” said his aunt, taking the hand- 
kerchief, “ draw the curtain a little, dearest ; the light hurts my 
eyes. Now, go into the closet, and bring me my dark shawl 5 
— take your time. — There ; thank you, Pierre ; now sit down 
again, and I will begin. — ^The picture was painted long ago, 
my child ; you were not born then.” 

“ Not born ?” cried little Pierre. 

“ Not born,” said his aunt. 

“ Well, go on, aunt ; but don’t tell me again that once upon 
a time I was not little Pierre at all, and yet my father was 
alive. Go on, aunt, — do, do !” 

“ Why, how nervous you are getting, my child ; — ^Be patient ; 
I am very old, Pierre ; and old people never like to be hurried.” 

“ Now, my own dear Aunt Dorothea, do forgive me this 
once, and go on with your story.” 

“ When your poor father was quite a young man, my child, 
and was on one of his long autumnal visits to his friends in this 
city, he was rather intimate at times with a cousin of his, Ralph 
Winwood, who was about his own age, — a fine youth he was, 
too, Pierre.” 

“ I never saw him, aunt ; pray, where is he now ?” inter- 
rupted Pierre ; — “ does he live in the country, now, as mother 
and I do ?” 

“ Yes, my child ; but a far-away, beautiful country, I hope ; 
he’s in heaven, I trust.” 

“ Dead,” sighed little Pierre— “ go on aunt.” 

“Now, cousin Ralph had a great love for painting, my child ; 


100 


PIEREE. 


and he spent many hours in a room, hung all round with pic- 
tures and portraits ; and there he had his easel and brushes ; 
and much liked to paint his friends, and hang their faces on his 
walls ; so that when all alone by himself, he yet had plenty of 
company, who always wore their best expressions to him, and 
never once ruffled him, by ever getting cross or ill-natured, little 
Pierre. Often, he had besought your father to sit to him ; 
sapng, that his silent circle of friends would never be complete, 
till your father consented to join them. But in those days, my 
child, your father was always in motion. It was hard for me to 
get him to stand still, while I tied his cravat; for he never 
came to any one but me for that. So he was always putting 
off, and putting off cousin Ralph. ‘ Some other time, cousin ; 
not to-day ; — to-morrow, perhaps ; — or next week — and so, 
at last cousin Ralph began to despair. But I’ll catch him yet, 
cried sly cousin Ralph. So now he said nothing more to yom' 
father about the matter of painting him ; but every pleasant 
morning kept his easel and brushes and every thing in read- 
iness ; so as to be ready the first moment your father should 
chance to drop in upon him from his long strolls ; for it was 
now and then your father’s wont to pay flying little visits to 
cousin Ralph in his painting-room. — But, my child, you may 
draw back the curtain now — it’s getting very dim here, seems 
to me.” 

“Well, I thought so all along, aunt,” said little Pierre, obey- 
ing; “but didn’t you say the light hurt your eyes.” 

“ But it does not now, little Pierre.” 

“ Well, well ; go on, go on, aunt ; you can’t think how inter- 
ested I am,” said little Pierre, drawing his stool close up to the 
quilted satin hem of his good Aunt Dorothea’s dress. 

“ I will, my child. But first let me tell you, that about this 
time there arrived in the port, a cabin-full of French emigrants 
of quality ; — poor people, Pierre, who were forced to fly from 
their native land, because of the cruel, blood-shedding times 


PIEERE. 


101 


there. But you have read all that in the little history I gave 
you, a good while ago.” 

“ I know all about it ; — the French Revolution,” said little 
Pierre. 

“ What a famous little scholar you are, my dear child,” — 
said Aunt Dorothea, faintly smiling — “ among those poor, but 
noble emigi’ants, there was a beautiful young girl, whose sad 
fate afterward made a great noise in the city, and made many 
eyes to weep, but in vain, for she never was heard of any more.” 

“ How ? how ? aunt ; — I don’t understand ; — did she disap- 
pear then, aunt ?” 

“ I was a little before my story, child. Yes, she did disap- 
pear, and never was heard of again ; but that was afterward, 
some time afterward, my child. I am very sure it was; I 
could take my oath of that, Pierre.” 

“ Why, dear aunt,” said little Pierre, “ how earnestly you talk 
— after what ? your voice is getting very strange ; do now ; — 
don’t talk that way ; you frighten me so, aunt.” 

“ Perhaps it is this bad cold I have to-day ; it makes my 
voice a little hoarse, I fear, Pierre. But I will try and not talk 
so hoarsely again. Well, my child, some time before this beau- 
tiful young lady disappeared, indeed it was only shortly after 
the poor emigrants landed, your father made her acquaintance ; 
and with many other humane gentlemen of the city, provided 
for the wants of the strangers, for they were very poor indeed, 
having been stripped of every thing, save a little trifling jewelry, 
which could not go veiy far. At last, the friends of your fa- 
ther endeavored to dissuade him fi-om visiting these people so 
much ; they were fearful that as the young lady was so very 
beautiful, and a little inclined to be intriguing — so some said — 
your father might be tempted to marry her ; which would not 
have been a wise thing in him ; for though the young lady 
might have been very beautiful, and good-hearted, yet no one 
on this side tlie water certainly knew her history ; and she was 


102 


PIERRE. 


a foreigner ; and would not have made so suitable and excellent 
a match for your father as your dear mother afterward did, my 
child. But, for myself, I — who always knew your father very 
well in all his intentions, and he was very confidential with me, 
too — I, for my part, never credited that he would do so unwise 
a thing as marry the strange young lady. At any rate, he at 
last discontinued his visits to the emigrants ; and it was after 
this that the young lady disappeared. Some said that she 
must have voluntarily but secretly returned into her own coun- 
try ; and others declared that she must have been kidnapped 
by French emissaries ; for, after her disappearance, rumor began 
to hint that she was of the noblest bii-th, and some ways allied 
to the royal family ; and then, again, there were some who 
shook their heads darkly, and muttered of drownings, and other 
dark things ; which one always hears hinted when people 
disappear, and no one can find them. But though your father 
and many other gentlemen moved heaven and earth to find 
trace of her, yet, as I said before, my child, she never re-ap- 
peared.” 

“ The poor French lady !” sighed little Pierre. “ Aunt, I’m 
afraid she was murdered.” 

“ Poor lady, there is no telling,” said his aunt. “ But listen, 
for I am coming to the picture again. Now, at the time your 
father was so often visiting the emigrants, my child, cousin 
Ralph was one of those who a little fancied that your father 
was courting her ; but cousin Ralph being a quiet young man, 
and a scholar, not well acquainted with what is wise, or what 
is foolish in the great world ; cousin Ralph would not have 
been at all mortified had your father really wedded with the 
refugee young lady. So vainly thinking, as I told you, that 
your father was courting her, he fancied it would be a very fine 
thing if he could paint your father as her wooer ; that is, paint 
him just after his coming from his daily visits to the emigrants. 
So he watched his chance ; every thing being ready in his paint- 


PIERRE. 


103 


ing-room, as I told you before ; and one morning, sure enough, 
in dropt your father from his walk. But before he came into 
the room, cousin Ralph had spied , him from the window ; and 
when your father entered, cousin Ralph had the sitting-chair 
ready drawn out, back of his easel, but still fronting toward 
him, and pretended to be very busy painting. He said to your 
father — ‘ Glad to see you, cousin Pierre ; I am just about 
something here ; sit right down there now, and tell me the 
news ; and I’ll sally out with you presently. And tell us some- 
things of the emigrants, cousin Pierre,’ he slyly added — wish- 
ing, you see, to get your father’s thoughts running that sup- 
posed wooing way, so that he might catch some sort of cor- 
responding expression you see, little Pierre.” 

“ I don’t know that I precisely understand, aunt ; but go on, 
I am so interested ; do go on, dear aunt.” 

“Well, by many little cunning shifts and contrivances, cousin 
Ralph kept your father there sitting, and sitting in the chair, 
rattling and rattling away, and so self-forgetful too, that he 
never heeded that all the while sly cousin Ralph was painting 
and painting just as fast as ever he could ; and only making be- 
lieve laugh at your father’s wit ; in short, cousin Ralph was 
stealing his portrait, my child.” 

“ Not stealing it, I hope,” said Pierre, “ that would be very 
wicked.” 

“ Well, then, we won’t call it stealing, since I am sure that 
cousin Ralph kept your hither all the time off from him, and 
so, could not have possibly picked his pocket, though indeed, 
he slyly picked his portrait, so to speak. And if indeed it was 
stealing, or any thing of that sort ; yet seeing how much com- 
fort that portrait has been to me, Pierre, and how much it will 
yet be to you, I hope; I think we must very heartily forgive 
cousin Ralph, for what he then did.” 

“Yes, I think we must indeed,” chimed in little Pierre, now 


104 


P I E R E E . 


eagerly eying the very portrait in question, which hung over 
the mantle. 

“ Well, by catching your father two or three times more in 
that way, cousin Ralph at last finished the painting ; and when 
it was all framed, and every way completed, he would have 
surprised your father by hanging it boldly up in his room 
among his other portraits, had not your father one morning 
suddenly come to him — while, indeed, the very picture itself 
was placed face down on a table and cousin Ralph fixing the 
cord to it — came to him, and frightened cousin Ralph by 
quietly saying, that now that Ke thought of it, it seenfed to 
him that cousin Ralph had been playing tricks with him ; but 
he hoped it was not so. ‘What do you mean?’ said cousin 
Ralph, a little flurried. ‘ You have not been hanging my 
portrait up here, have you, cousin Ralph ?’ said your father, 
glancing along the walls. ‘ I’m glad I don’t see' it. It is my 
whim, cousin Ralph, — and perhaps it is a very silly one, — but 
if you have been lately painting my portrait, I want you to 
destroy it ; at any rate, don’t show it to any one, keep it out 
of sight. What’s that you have there, cousin Ralph ?’ 

“Cousin Ralph was now more and more fluttered; not 
knowing what to make — as indeed, to this day, I don’t com- 
pletely myself — of your father’s strange manner. But he ral- 
lied, and said — ‘ This, cousin Pierre, is a secret portrait I have 
here ; you must be aware that we portrait-painters are some- 
times called upon to paint such. I, therefore, can not show it 
to you, or tell you any thing about it.’ 

“‘Have you been painting my portrait or not, cousin 
Ralph ?’ said your father, very suddenly and pointedly. 

“ ‘ I have painted nothing that looks as you there look,’ 
said cousin Ralph, evasively, observing in your father’s face a 
fierce-like expression, which he had never seen there before. 
And more than that, your father could not get from him.” 

“ And what then ?” said little Pierre. 


PIERRE. 


105 


“ Wliy not much, my child ; only your father never so 
much as caught one glimpse of that picture ; indeed, never 
knew for certain, whether there was such a painting in the 
world. Cousin Ralph secretly gave it to me, knowing how 
tenderly I loved your father ; making me solemnly promise 
never to expose it anywhere where your father could- ever see 
it, or any way hear of it. This promise I faithfully kept ; and 
it was only after your dear father’s death, that I hung it in my 
chamber. There, Pierre, you now have the story of the chair- 
portrait.” 

“ And a very strange one it is,” said Pierre — “ and so in- 
teresting, I shall never forget it, aunt.” 

“ I hope you never will, my child. Now ring the bell, and 
we will have a little fruit-cake, and I will take a glass of wine, 
Pierre ; — do you hear, my child ? — the bell — ring it. Why, 
what do you do standing there, Pierre ?” 

“ Why did’nt papa want to have cousin Ralph paint his pic- 
ture, aunt?” 

“ How these children’s minds do run !” exclaimed old aunt 
Dorothea staring at little Pierre in amazement — “ That indeed 
is more than I can tell you, little Pierre. But cousin Ralph 
had a foolish fancy about it. He used to tell me, that being in 
your father’s room some few days after the last scene I de- 
scribed, he noticed there a very wonderful work on Physiog- 
nomy, as they call it, in which the strangest and shadowiest 
rules were laid down for detecting people’s innermost secrets by 
studying their faces. And so, foolish cousin Ralph always 
flattered himself, that the reason your father did not want his 
portrait taken was, because he was secretly in love with the. 
French young lady, and did not want his secret published in a 
portrait; since the wonderful work on Physiognomy had, as it 
were, indirectly warned him against running that risk. But 
cousin Ralph being such a retired and solitaiy sort of a youth, 
he always had such curious whimsies about things. For my 

E* 


106 


PIERRE. 


part, I don’t believe your father ever had any such ridiculous 
ideas on the subject To be sure, I myself can not tell you why 
he did not want his picture taken ; but when you get to be as 
old as I am, little Pierre, you will find that every one, even the 
best of us, at times, is apt to act very queerly and unaccounta- 
bly ; ind^d some things we do, we can not entirely explain the 
reason of, even to ourselves, little Pierre. But you will know 
all about these strange matters by and by.” 

“ I hope I shall, aunt,” said little Pierre — “ But, dear aunt, I 
thought Marten was to bring in some fi'uit-cake ?” 

“ Ring the bell for him, then, my child.” 

“ Oh ! I forgot,” said little Pierre, doing her bidding. 

By-and-by, while the aunt was sipping her wine ; and the 
boy eating his cake, and both their eyes were fixed on the por- 
trait in question ; little Pierre, pushing his stool nearer the pic- 
ture exclaimed — “Now, aunt, did papa really look exactly like 
that ? Did you ever see him in that same buff vest, and huge- 
figured neckcloth ? I remember the seal and key, pretty well ; 
and it was only a week ago that I saw mamma take them out of 
a little locked drawer in her wardrobe — but I don’t remember 
the queer whiskers ; nor the buff vest ; nor the huge white- 
figured neckcloth ; did you ever see papa in that very neck- 
cloth, aunt ?” 

“ My child, it was I that chose the stuff for that neckcloth ; 
yes, and hemmed it for him, and worked P. G. in one corner ; 
but that aint in the picture. It is an excellent likeness, my 
child, neckcloth and all ; as he looked at that time. Why, 
little Pierre, sometimes I sit here all alone by myself, gazing, 
and gazing, and gazing at that face, till I begin to think your 
father is looking at me, and smiling at me, and nodding at me, 
and saying — Dorothea ! Dorothea !” 

“ How strange,” said little Pierre, “ I think it begins to look 
at me now, aunt. Hark ! aunt, it’s so silent all round in this 
old-fashioned room, that I think I hear a little jingling in the 


PIEERE. 


107 


picture, as if the watch-seal was striking against the key — 
Hark! aunt.” 

“ Bless me, don’t talk so strangely, my child.” 

“ I heard mamma say once — but she did not say so to me — 
that, for her part, she did not like aunt Dorothea’s picture ; it 
was not a good likeness, so she said. Why don’t mamma like 
the picture, aunt ?” 

“ My child, you ask very queer questions. If your mamma 
don’t like the picture, it is for a very plain reason. She has a 
much larger and finer one at home, which she had painted for 
herself ; yes, and paid I don’t know how many hundred dollars 
for it ; and that, too, is an excellent likeness, that must be the 
reason, little Pierre.” 

And thus the old aunt and the little child ran on ; each 
thinking the other very strange ; and both thinking the picture 
still stranger ; and the face in the picture still looked at them 
frankly, and cheerfully, as if there was nothing kept concealed ; 
and yet again, a little ambiguously and mockingly, as if slyly 
winking to some other picture, to mark what a very foolish old 
sister, and what a very silly little son, were growing so mon- 
strously grave and speculative about a huge white-figured neck- 
cloth, a buff vest, and a very gentleman-like and amiable coun- 
tenance. 

And so, after this scene, as usual, one by one, the fleet yeai-s 
ran on ; till the little child Pierre had grown up to be the tall 
Master Pierre, and could call the picture his own ; and now, in 
the privacy of his own little closet, could stand, or lean, or sit 
before it all day long, if he pleased, and keep thinking, and 
thinking, and thinking, and thinking, till by-and-by all thoughts 
were blurred, and at last there were no thoughts at all. 

Before the picture was sent to him, in his fifteenth year, it 
had been only through the inadvertence of his mother, or 
rather through a casual passing into a parlor by Pierre, that he 
had any way learned that his mother did not approve of the 


108 


PIERRE. 


picture. Because, as then Pierre was still young, and the pic- 
ture was the picture of his father, and the cherished property of 
a most excellent, and dearly-beloved, affectionate aunt ; therefore 
the mother, with an intuitive delicacy, had refrained from know- 
ingly expressing her peculiar opinion in the presence of little 
Pierre. And this judicious, though half-unconscious delicacy 
in the mother, had been perhaps somewhat singularly answered 
by a like nicety of sentiment in the child ; for children of a 
naturally refined organization, and a gentle nurture, sometimes 
possess a wonderful, and often undreamed of, daintiness of pro- 
priety, and thoughtfulness, and forbearance, in mattei-s esteemed 
a little subtile even by their elders, aud self-elected betters. The 
little Pierre never disclosed to his mother that he had, through 
another person, become aware of her thoughts concerning Aunt 
Dorothea’s portrait ; he seemed to possess an intuitive knowl 
edge of the circumstance, that from the difference of their rela 
tionship to his father, and for other minute reasons, he could in 
some things, with the greater propriety, he more inquisitive 
concerning him, with his aunt, than with his mother, especially 
touching the matter of the chair-portrait. And Aunt Doro- 
thea’s reasons accounting for his mother’s distaste, long con- 
tinued satisfactory, or at least not unsufficiently explanatory. 

And when the portrait arrived at the Meadows, it so chanced 
that his mother was abroad ; and so Pierre silently hung it up 
in his closet ; and when after a day or two his mother returned, 
he said nothing to her about its arrival, being still strangely 
alive to that certain mild mystery which invested it, and whose 
sacredness now he was fearful of violating, by provoking any 
discussion with his mother about Aunt Dorothea’s gift, or by 
permitting himself to be improperly curious concerning the rea- 
sons of his mother’s private and self-reserved opinions of it. 
But the first time — and it was not long after the arrival of the 
portrait — that he knew of his mother’s having entered his 


PIEKRE. 


109 


closet ; then, when he next saw her, he was prepared to hear 
what she should voluntarily say about the late addition to its 
embellishments ; but as she omitted all mention of any thing 
of that sort, he unobtrusively scanned her countenance, to mark 
whether any little clouding emotion might be discoverable there. 
But he could discern none. And as all genuine delicacies are 
by their nature accumulative ; therefore this reverential, mu- 
tual, but only tacit forbearance of the mother and son, ever 
after, continued uninvaded. And it was another sweet, and 
sanctified, and sanctifying bond between them. For, whatever 
some lovers may sometimes say, love does not always abhor a 
secret, as nature is said to abhor a vacuum. Love is built 
upon secrets, as lovely Venice upon invisible and incorruptible 
piles in the sea. Love’s secrets, being mysteries, ever pertain to 
the transcendent and the infinite ; and so they are as airy 
bridges, by which our further shadows pass over into the re- 
gions of the golden mists and exhalations ; whence all poetical, 
lovely thoughts are engendered, and drop into us, as though 
pearls should drop from rainbows. 

As time went on, the chasteness and pure virginity of this 
mutual reservation, only served to dress the portrait in sweeter, 
because still more mysterious attractions ; and to fling, as it 
were, fresh fennel and rosemary around the revered memory of 
the father. Though, indeed, as previously recounted, Pierre 
now and then loved to present to himself for some fanciful 
solution the penultimate secret of the portrait, in so far, as that 
involved his mother’s distaste ; yet the cunning analysis in which 
such a mental procedure would involve him, never voluntarily 
transgi’essed that sacred limit, where his mother’s peculiar re- 
pugnance began to shade off into ambiguous considerations, 
touching any unknown possibilities in the character and early 
life of the original. Not, that he had altogether forbidden his 
fancy to range in such fields of speculation ; but all such ima- 


110 


PIEEEE. 


ginings must be contributory to that pure, exalted idea of his 
father, which, in his soul, was based upon the known acknowl- 
edged facts of his father’s life. 


V. 

If, when the mind roams up and down in the ever-elastic 
regions of evanescent invention, any definite form or feature can 
be assigned to the multitudinous shapes it creates out of the 
incessant dissolvings of its own prior creations ; then might we 
here attempt to hold and define the least shadowy of those 
reasons, which about the period of adolescence we now treat of, 
more frequently occurred to Pierre, whenever he essayed to ac- 
count for his mother’s remaikable distaste for the portrait. Yet 
will we venture one sketch. 

Yes — sometimes dimly thought Pierre — ^who knows but 
cousin Ralph, after all, may have been not so very far from 
the truth, when he surmised that at one time my father did 
indeed cherish some passing emotion for the beautiful young 
Frenchwoman. And this portrait being painted at that pre- 
cise time, and indeed with the precise purpose of perpetuating 
some shadowy testification of the fact in the countenance of 
the original : therefore, its expression is not congenial, is not 
familiar, is not altogether agreeable to my mother : because, 
not only did my father’s features never look so to her (since it 
was afterward that she first became acquainted with him), but 
•ilso, that certain womanliness of women ; that thing I should 
perhaps call a tender jealousy, a fastidious vanity, in any other 
lady, enables her to perceive that the glance of the face in the 
portrait, is not, in some nameless way, dedicated to herself, but 
to some other and unknown object ; and therefore, is she im 
patient of it, and it is repelling to her ; for she must naturally 


PIERRE. 


Ill 


be intolerant of any imputed reminiscence in my father, which 
is not in some way connected with her own recollections of 
him. 

Whereas, the larger and more expansive portrait in the 
great drawing-room, taken in the prime of life ; during the 
best and rosiest days of their wedded union ; at the particular 
desire of my mother ; and by a celebrated artist of her own 
election, and costumed after her own taste ; and on all hands 
considered to be, by those who know, a singularly happy like- 
ness at the period ; a belief spiritually reinforced by my own 
dim infantile remembrances ; for all these reasons, this draw- 
ing-room portrait possesses an inestimable charm to her ; there, 
she indeed beholds her husband as he had really appeared to 
her ; she does not vacantly gaze upon an unfamiliar phantom 
called up from the distant, and, to her, well-nigh fabulous days 
of my father’s bachelor life. But in that other portrait, she 
sees rehearsed to her fond eyes, the latter tales and legends of 
his devoted wedded love. Yes, I think now that I plainly see 
it must be so. And yet, ever new conceits come vaporing up 
in me, as I look on the strange chair-portrait : which, though 
so very much more unfamiliar to me, than it can possibly be 
to my mother, still sometimes seems to say — Pierre, believe 
not the drawing-room painting ; that is not thy father ; or, at 
least, is not all of thy father. Consider in thy mind, Pierre, 
whether we two paintings may not make only one. Faithful 
wives are ever over-fond to a certain imaginary image of their 
husbands ; and faithful widows are ever over-reverential to a 
certain imagined ghost of that same imagined image, Pierre. 
Look again, I am thy father as he more truly was. In mature 
life, the world overlays and varnishes us, Pierre ; the thousand 
proprieties and polished finenesses and grimaces intervene, 
Pierre ; then, we, as it were, abdicate ourselves, and take unto 
us another self, Pierre ; in youth we are, Pierre, but in age we 
mm. Look again. I am thy real father, so much the more 


112 


PIEREE. 


truly, as thou thinkest thou recognizest me not, Pierre. To 
their young children, fathers are not wont to unfold themselves 
entirely, Pierre. There are a thousand and one odd little 
youthful peccadilloes, that we think we may as well not divulge 
to them, Pierre. Consider this strange, ambiguous smile, 
PieiTe ; more narrowly regard this mouth. Behold, what is 
this too ardent and, as it were, nnchastened light in these eyes, 
Pierre ? I am thy father, boy. There was once a certain, oh, 
but too lovely young Frenchwoman, Pierre. Youth is hot, 
and temptation strong, Pierre ; and in the minutest moment 
momentous things are irrevocably done, Pierre; and Time 
sweeps on, and the thing is not always carried down by its 
stream, but may be left stranded on its bank ; away beyond, 
in the young, green countries, Pierre. Look again. Doth thy 
mother dislike me for naught? Consider. Do not all her 
spontaneous, loving impressions, ever strive to magnify, and 
spiritualize, and deify, her husband’s memory, Pierre ? Then 
why doth she cast despite upon me ; and never speak to thee 
of me; and why dost thou thyself keep silence before her, 
Pierre ? Consider. Is there no little mystery here ? Probe 
a little, Pierre. Never fear, never fear. No matter for thy 
father now. Look, do I not smile ? — yes, and with an un- 
changeable smile ; and thus have I unchangeably smiled for 
many long years gone by, Pierre. Oh, it is a permanent 
smile ! Thus I smiled to cousin Ralph ; and thus in thy dear 
old Aunt Dorothea’s parlor, Pierre ; and just so, I smile here to 
thee, and even thus in thy father’s later life, when his body 
may have been in grief, still — hidden away in Aunt Dorothea’s 
secretary — I thus smiled as before ; and just so I’d smile were 
I now hung up in the deepest dungeon of the Spa/iish Inquisi- 
tion, Pierre ; though suspended in outer darkness, still would 
I smile with this smile, though then not a soul should be near. 
Consider ; for a smile is the chosen vehicle for all ambiguities, 
Pierre. When we would deceive, we smile; when we are 


PIERRE. 


118 


hatching any nice little artifice, Pierre ; only just a little 
gratifying our own sweet little appetites, Pierre ; then watch 
us, and out comes the odd little smile. Once upon a time, 
there was a lovely young Frenchwoman, Pierre. Have you 
carefully, and analytically, and psychologically, and metaphysi- 
cally, considered her belongings and surroundings, and all her 
incidentals, Pierre ? Oh, a strange sort of story, that, thy dear 
old Aunt Dorothea once told thee, Pierre. I once knew a 
credulous old soul, Pierre. Probe, probe a little — see — ^there 
seems one little crack there, Pierre — a wedge, a wedge. Some- 
thing ever comes of all persistent inquiry ; we are not so con- 
tinually curious for nothing, Pien’e ; not for nothing, do we so 
intrigue and become wily diplomatists, and glozers with our 
own minds, Pierre ; and afraid of following the Indian trail 
from the open plain into the dark thickets, Pierre ; but enough ; 
a word to the wise. 

Thus sometimes in the mystical, outer quietude of the long 
country nights ; either when the hushed mansion was banked 
round by the thick-fallen December snows, or banked round 
by the immovable white August moonlight ; in the haunted 
repose of a wide story, tenanted only by himself ; and sentinel- 
ing his own little closet; and standing guard, as it were, 
before the mystical tent of the picture ; and ever watching the 
strangely concealed lights of the meanings that so mysteriously 
moved to and fro within ; thus sometimes stood Pierre before 
the portrait of his father, unconsciously throwing himself open 
to all those ineflfable hints and ambiguities, and undefined half- 
suggestions, which now and then people the soul’s atmosphere, 
as thickly as in a soft, steady snow-storm, the snow-flakes 
people the air. Yet as often starting from these reveries and 
trances, Pierre would regain the assured element of consciously 
bidden and self-propelled thought; and then in a moment the 
air all cleared, not a snow-flake descended, and Pierre, upbraid- 
ing himself for his self-indulgent infatuation, would promise 


114 


PIEKEE. 


never again to fall into a midnight reveiy before the chair-por- 
trait of his father. Nor did the streams of these reveries seem 
to leave any conscious sediment in his mind ; they were so 
light and so rapid, that they rolled their own alluvial along ; 
and seemed to leave all Pierre’s thought-channels as clean 
and dry as though never any alluvial stream had rolled there 
at all. 

And so still in his sober, cherishing memones, his father’s 
beatification remained untouched ; and all the strangeness of 
the portrait only served to invest his idea with a fine, legend- 
ary romance ; the essence whereof was that very mystery, 
which at other times was so subtly and evilly significant. 

But now, now ! — Isabel’s letter read : swift as the first light 
that slides from the sun, Pierre saw all preceding ambiguities, 
all mysteries ripped open as if with a keen sword, and forth 
trooped thickening phantoms of an infinite gloom. Now his 
remotest infantile reminiscences — ^the wandering mind of his 
father — the empty hand, and the ashen — ^the strange story of 
Aunt Dorothea — the mystical midnight suggestions of the por- 
trait itself; and, above all, his mother’s intuitive aversion, all, 
all overwhelmed him with reciprocal testimonies. 

And now, by irresistible intuitions, all that had been in- 
explicably mysterious to him in the portrait, and all that 
had been inexplicably familiar in the face, most magically 
these now coincided ; the meniness of the one not inhar- 
monious with the mournfulness of the other, but by some in- 
efiable correlativeness, they reciprocally identified each other, 
and, as it were, melted into each other, and thus interpenetrat- 
ingly uniting, presented lineaments of an added supernatural- 
ness. 

On all sides, the physical world of solid objects now slid- 
ingly displaced itself from around him, and he floated into an 
ether of visions ; and, starting to his feet with clenched hands 
and outstaring eyes at the transfixed face in the air, he ejacu- 


PIERRE. 


115 


lated that wonderful verse from Dante, descriptive of the two 
mutually absorbing shapes in the Inferno : 

“ Ah ! how dost thou change, 

Agnello ! See ! thou art not double now, 
Noronlyonol” 


BOOK V. 


MISGIVINGS AND PREPARATIONS. 


I. 

It long after midnight when Pierre returned to the 
house. He had rushed forth in that complete abandonment 
of soul, which, in so ardent a temperament, attends the fii-st 
stages of any sudden and tremendous affliction ; but now he 
returned in pallid composure, for the calm spirit of the night, 
and the then risen moon, and the late revealed stars, had all at 
last become as a strange subduing melody to him, which, 
though at first trampled and scorned, yet by degrees had stolen 
into the windings of his heart, and so shed abroad its own quiet- 
ude in him. How, from his height of composure, he firmly 
gazed abroad upon the charred landscape within him ; as the 
timber man of Canada, forced to fly from the conflagration of 
his forests, comes back again when the fires have waned, and 
unblinkingly eyes the immeasurable fields of fire-brands that 
here and there glow beneath the wide canopy of smoke. 

It has been said, that always when Pierre would seek solitude 
in its material shelter and walled isolation, then the closet com- 
municating with his chamber was his elected haunt. So, going 
to his room, he took up the now dim-burning lamp he had left 
there, and instinctively entered that retreat, seating himself, 
with folded arms and bowed head, in the accustomed dragon- 
footed old chair. With leaden feet, and heart now changing 


PIERRE. 


117 


from iciness to a strange sort of indifference, and a numbing 
sensation stealing over him, he sat there awhile, till, like the 
resting traveler in snows, he began to struggle against this in- 
ertness as the most treacherous and deadliest of symptoms. 
He looked up, and found himself fronted by the no longer 
wholly enigmatical, but still ambiguously smiling picture of his 
father. Instantly all his consciousness and his anguish returned, 
but still without power to shake the grim tranquillity which 
possessed him. Yet endure the smiling portrait he could not ; 
and obeying an irresistible nameless impulse, he rose, and with- 
out unhanging it, revereed the picture on the wall. 

This brought to sight the defaced and dusty back, with some 
wrinkled, tattered paper over the joints, which had become 
loosened from the paste. “ Oh, symbol of thy reversed idea in 
my soul,” groaned Pierre ; “ thou shalt not hang thus. Bather 
cast thee utterly out, than conspicuously insult thee so. I will 
no more have a father.” He removed the picture wholly from 
the wall, and the closet ; and concealed it in a large chest, cov- 
ered with blue chintz, and locked it up there. But still, in a 
square space of slightly discolored wall, the picture still left its 
shadowy, but vacant and desolate trace. He now strove to 
banish the least trace of his altered father, as fearful that at 
present all thoughts concerning him were not only entirely vain, 
but would prove fatally distracting and incapacitating to a mind, 
which was now loudly called upon, not only to endure a signal 
grief, but immediately to act upon it. Wild and cruel case, 
youth ever thinks ; but mistakenly ; for Experience well knows, 
that action, though it seems an aggravation of woe, is really an 
alleviative; though permanently to alleviate pain, we must 
first dart some added pangs. 

Nor now, though profoundly sensible that his whole previous 
moral being was overturned, and that for him the fair structure 
of the world must, in some then unknown way, be entirely re- 
builded again, from the lowermost corner stone up ; nor now 


118 


PIEERE. 


did Pierre torment himself with the thought of that last deso- 
ation ; and how the desolate place was to be made flourishing 
again. He seemed to feel that in his deepest soul, lurked an 
indefinite but potential faith, which could rule in the inten*eg- 
num of all hereditary beliefs, and circumstantial persuasions ; 
not wholly, he felt, was his soul in anarchy. The indefinite 
regent had assumed the scepter as its right ; and Pierre was not 
entirely given up to his grief’s utter pillage and sack. 

To a less enthusiastic heart than Pierre’s the foremost ques- 
tion in respect to Isabel which would have presented itself, 
would have been. What must I do ? But such a question never 
presented itself to Pierre; the spontaneous responsiveness of 
his being left no shadow of dubiousness as to the direct point 
he must aim at. But if the object was plain, not so the path 
to it. How must I do it ? was a problem for which at first 
there seemed no chance of solution. But without being entire- 
ly aware of it himself, PieiTe was one of those spirits, which 
not in a determinate and sordid scrutiny of small pros and cons 
— ^but in an impulsive subservience to the god-like dictation of 
events themselves, find at length the surest solution of perplexi- 
ties, and the brightest prerogative of command. And as for 
him. What must I do ? was a question already answered by 
the inspiration of the difficulty itself ; so now he, as it were, un- 
consciously discharged his mind, for the present, of all dis- 
tracting considerations concerning How he should do it ; as- 
sured that the coming interriew with Isabel could not but un- 
erringly inspire him there. Still, the inspiration which had 
thus far directed him had not been entirely mute and undivulg- 
ing as to many very bitter things which Pierre foresaw in the 
wide sea of trouble into which he was plunged. 

If it be the sacred province and — by the wisest, deemed — 
the inestimable compensation of the heavier woes, that they 
both purge the soul of gay-hearted en-ors and replenish it with 
a saddened truth ; that holy office is not so much accomplished 


PIERRE. 


119 


by any covertly inductive reasoning process, whose original 
motive is received from the particular affliction ; as it is the 
magical effect of the admission into man’s inmost spirit of a 
before unexperienced and wholly inexplicable element, which 
like electricity suddenly received into any sultry atmosphere of 
the dark, in all directions splits itself into nimble lances of pu- 
rifying light ; which at one and the same instant discharge all 
the air of sluggishness and inform it with an illuminating prop- 
erty ; so that objects which before, in the uncertainty of the 
dark, assumed shadowy and romantic outlines, now are lighted 
up in their substantial realities ; so that in these flashing reve- 
lations of grief’s wonderful fire, we see all things as they are * 
and though, when the electric element is gone, the shadows 
once more descend, and the false outlines of objects again re- 
turn ; yet not with their former power to deceive ; for now, 
even in the presence of the falsest aspects, we still retain the 
impressions of their immovable true ones, though, indeed, once 
more concealed. 

Thus with Pierre. In the joyous young times, ere his great 
grief came upon him, all the objects which surrounded him 
were concealingly deceptive. Not only was the long-cherished 
image of his father now transfigured before him from a green 
foliaged tree into a blasted trunk, but every other image in his 
mind attested the universality of that electral light which had 
darted into his soul. Not even his lovely, immaculate mother, 
remained entirely untouched, unaltered by the shock. At her 
changed aspect, when fii-st revealed to him, Pierre had gazed in 
a panic ; and now, when the electrical storm had gone by, he 
retained in his mind, that so suddenly revealed image, with an 
infinite mournfulness. She, who in her less splendid but finer 
and more spiritual part, had ever seemed to Pien-e not only as 
a beautiful saint before whom to offer up his daily orisons, but 
also as a gentle lady-counsellor and confessor, and her revered 
chamber as a soft satin-hung cabinet and confessional ; — his 


120 


PIERRE. 


mother was no longer this all-alluring thing ; no more, he too 
keenly felt, could he go to his mother, as to one who entirely 
sympathized with him ; as to one before whom he could almost 
unreservedly unbosom himself; as to one capable of pointing 
out to him the true path where he seemed most beset. Won- 
derful, indeed, was that electric insight which Fate had now 
given him into the vital character of his mother. She well 
might have stood all ordinary tests ; but when Pierre thought 
of the touchstone of his immense strait applied to her spirit ; he 
felt profoundly assured that she would crumble into nothing 
before it. 

She was a noble creature, but formed chiefly for the gilded 
prosperities of life, and hitherto mostly used to its unruffled se- 
renities; bred and expanded, in all developments, under the 
sole influence of hereditary forms and world-usages. Not his 
refined, courtly, loving, equable mother, Pierre felt, could unre- 
servedly, and like a heaven’s heroine, meet the shock of his ex- 
traordinary emergency, and applaud, to his heart’s echo, a sub- 
lime resolve, whose execution should call down the astonish- 
ment and the jeers of the world. 

My mother ! — dearest mother ! — God hath given me a sister, 
and unto thee a daughter, and covered her with the world’s 
exti’emest infamy and scorn, that so I and thou — thou^ my 
mother, mightest gloriously own her, and acknowledge her, 

and, Nay, nay, groaned Pierre, never, never, could such 

sylables be one instant tolerated by her. Then, high-up, and 
towering, and all-forbidding before Pierre grew the before un- 
thought of wonderful edifice of his mother’s immense pride ; — 
her pride of birth, her pride of aflfluence, her pride of purity, 
and all the pride of high-born, refined, and wealthy Life, and 
all the Semiramian pride of woman. Then he staggered back 
upon himself, and only found support in himself. Then Pierre 
felt that deep in him lurked a divine unidentifiableness, that 
owned no earthly kith or kin. Yet was this feeling entirely 


PIERRE. 


121 


lonesome, and orphan-like. Fain, then, for one moment, would 
he have recalled the thousand sweet illusions of Life; tho’ 
purchased at the price of Life’s Truth ; so that once more he 
might not feel himself driven out an infant Ishmael into the 
desert, with no maternal Hagar to accompany and comfort 
him. 

Still, were these emotions without prejudice to his own love 
for his mother, and without the slightest bitterness respecting 
her; and, least of all, there was no shallow disdain toward 
her of superior virtue. He too plainly saw, that not his mother 
had made his mother ; but the Infinite Haughtiness had fii*st 
fashioned her; and then the haughty world had further 
molded her ; nor had a haughty Ritual omitted to finish her. 

Wonderful, indeed, we repeat it, was the electrical insight 
which Pierre now had into the character of his mother, for not 
even the vivid recalling of her lavish love for him could suffice 
to gainsay his sudden persuasion. Love me she doth, thought 
Pierre, but how ? Loveth she me with the love past all under- 
standing ? that love, which in the loved one’s behalf, would still 
calmly confront all hate? whose most triumphing hymn, 
triumphs only by swelling above all opposing taunts and de- 
spite ? — Loving mother, here have I a loved, but world -infamous 
sister to own ; — and if thou lovest me, mother, thy love will 
love her, too, and in the proudest drawing-room take her so 
much the more proudly by the hand. — And as Pierre thus in 
fancy led Isabel before his mother ; and in fancy led her away, 
and felt his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth, with her 
transfixing look of incredulous, scornful horror ; then Pierre s 
enthusiastic heart sunk in and in, and caved clean away in him, 
as he so poignantly felt his first feeling of the dreary heart- 
vacancies of the conventional life. Oh heartless, proud, ice- 
gilded world, how I hate thee, he thought, that thy tyrannous, 
insatiate grasp, thus now in my bitterest need thus doth rob 
me even of my mother ; thus doth make me now doubly, an 

F 


122 


PIERKE. 


orphan, -without a green grave to bedew. My tears, — could I 
weep them, — must now be wept in the desolate places ; now 
to me is it, as though both father and mother had gone on 
distant voyages, and, returning, died in unknown seas. 

She loveth me, ay ; — but why ? Had I been cast in a 
cripple’s mold, how then? Now, do I remember that in her 
most caressing love, there ever gleamed some scaly, glittering 
folds of pride. Me she loveth with pride’s love ; in me she 
thinks she seeth her own curled and haughty beauty ; before 
my glass she stands, — pride’s priestess — and to her mirrored 
image, not to me, she offers up her offerings of kisses. Oh, 
small thanks I owe thee. Favorable Goddess, that didst clothe 
this form with all the beauty of a man, that so thou mightest 
hide fi’om me all the truth of a man. Now I see that in his 
beauty a man is snared, and made stone-blind, as the worm 
within its silk. Welcome then be Ugliness and Poverty and 
Infamy, and all ye other crafty ministers of Truth, that beneath 
the hoods and rags of beggars hide yet the belts and crowns of 
kings. And dimmed be all beauty that must own the clay; 
and dimmed be all wealth, and all delight, and all the annual 
prosperities of earth, that but gild the links, and stud with 
diamonds the base rivets and the chains of Lies. Oh, now me- 
thinks I a little see why of old the men of Truth went barefoot, 
girded with a rope, and ever moving under mournfulness as 
underneath a canopy. I remember now those first wise words^ 
wherewith our Savior Christ first spoke in his first speech to 
men : — ‘ Blessed are the poor in spirit, and blessed they that 
mourn.’ Oh, hitherto I have but piled up words ; bought 
books, and bought some small experiences, and builded me in 
libraries ; now I sit down and read. Oh, now I know the night, 
and comprehend the sorceries of the moon, and all the dark 
persuadings that have their birth in storms and winds. Oh, 
not long will Joy abide, when Truth doth come ; nor Grief her 
laggard be. Well may this head hang on my breast, — it holds 


PIERRE. 


123 


too much ; well may my heart knock at my ribs, — prisonei 
impatient of his iron bars. Oh, men are jailers all ; jailers of 
themselves; and in Opinion’s world ignorantly hold theii 
noblest part a captive to their vilest ; as disguised royal Charles 
when caught by peasants. The heart ! the heart ! ’tis God’s 
anointed ; let me pursue the heart ! 


II. 

But if the presentiment in Pierre of his mother’s pride, as 
bigotedly hostile to the noble design he cherished ; if this feel- 
ing was so wretched to him ; far more so was the thought of 
another and a deeper hostility, arising from her more spiritual 
part. For her pride would not be so scornful, as her wedded 
memories reject with horror, the unmentionable imputation in- 
volved in the mere fact of Isabel’s existence. In what galleries 
of conjecture, among what horrible haunting toads and scor- 
pions, would such a revelation lead her ? When Pierre thought 
of this, the idea of at all divulging his secret to his mother, not 
only was made repelling by its hopelessnes, as an infirm attack 
upon her citadel of pride, but was made in the last degree in- 
human, as torturing her in her tenderest recollections, and des- 
ecrating the whitest altar in her sanctuary. 

Though the conviction that he must never disclose his secret 
to his mother was originally an unmeditated, and as it were, an 
inspired one ; yet now he was almost pains-taking in scrutiniz- 
ing the entire circumstances of the matter, in order that nothing 
might be overlooked. For already he vaguely felt, that upon 
the concealment, or the disclosure of this thing, with reference 
to his mother, hinged his whole future course of conduct, his 
whole earthly weal, and Isabel’s. But the more and the more 
that he pondered upon it, the more and the more fixed became 


124 


PIERRE. 


his original conviction. He considered that in the case of a 
disclosure, all human probability pointed to his mother’s scorn- 
ful rejection of his suit as a pleader for Isabel’s honorable ad- 
mission into the honorable mansion of the Glendinnings. Then 
in that case, unconsciously thought Pierre, I shall have given 
the deep poison of a miserable truth to my mother, without 
benefit to any, and positive harm to all. And through Pierre’s 
mind there then darted a baleful thought ; how that the truth 
should not always be paraded ; how that sometimes a lie is 
heavenly, and truth infernal. Filially infernal, truly, thought 
Pierre, if I should by one vile breath of truth, blast my father’s 
blessed memory in the bosom of my mother, and plant the 
sharpest dagger of grief in her soul. I will not do it ! 

But as this resolution in him opened up so dark and wretched 
a background to his view, he strove to think no more of it 
now, but postpone it until the interview with Isabel should 
have in some way more definitely shaped his purposes. For, 
when suddenly encountering the shock of new and unanswer- 
able revelations, which he feels must revolutionize all the cir- 
cumstances of his life, man, at firet, ever seeks to shun all con- 
scious definitiveness in his thoughts and purposes ; as assured, 
that the lines that shall precisely define his present misery, and 
thereby lay out his future path ; these can only be defined by 
sharp stakes that cut into his heart. 


III. 

Most melancholy of all the houi-s of earth, is that one long, 
gray hour, which to the watcher by the lamp intervenes be- 
tween the night and day ; when both lamp and watcher, over- 
tasked, grow sickly in the pallid light ; and the watcher’ seek- 
ing for no gladpess in the dawn, sees naught but garish vapors 


PIERRE. 


125 


there ; and almost invokes a curse upon the public day, that 
shall invade h‘is lonely night of sufferance. 

The one shiall window of his closet looked forth upon the 
meadow, and across the river, and far away to the distant 
heights, storied with the great deeds of the Glendinnings. 
Many a time had Pierre sought this window before sunrise, to 
behold the blood-red, out-flinging dawn, that would wrap those 
purple hills as with a banner. But now the morning dawned 
in mist and rain, and came drizzlingly upon his heart. Yet as 
the day advanced, and once more showed to him the accus- 
tomed features of his room by that natural light, which, till 
this very moment, had never lighted him but to his joy ; now 
that the day, and not the night, was witness to his woe ; now 
first the dread reality came appallingly upon him. A sense of 
horrible forlornness, feebleness, impotence, and infinite, eternal 
desolation possessed him. It was not merely mental, but cor- 
poreal also. He could not stand ; and when he tried to sit, his 
arms fell floorwards as tied to leaden weights. Dragging his 
ball and chain, he fell upon his bed ; for when the mind is cast 
down, only in sympathetic proneness can the body rest ; whence 
the bed is often Grief’s first refuge. Half stupefied, as with 
opium, he fell into the profoundest sleep. 

In an hour he awoke, instantly recalling all the previous 
night ; and now finding himself a little strengthened, and lying so 
quietly and silently there, almost without bodily consciousness, 
but his soul unobtrusively alert ; careful not to break the spell by 
the least movement of a limb, or the least turning of his head. 
Pierre steadfastly faced his grief, and looked deep down into 
its eyes ; and thoroughly, and calmly, and summarily compre- 
hended it now — so at least he thought — and what it demanded 
from him; and what he must quickly do in its more imme- 
diate sequences ; and what that course of conduct was, which 
he must pursue in the coming unevadable breakfast interview 
with his mother ; and what, for the present must be his plan 


126 


PIERRE. 


with Lucy. His time of thought was brief. Rising from his 
bed, he steadied himself upright a moment ; and then going 
to his writing-desk, in a few at firet faltering, but at length un- 
lagging hnes, traced the following note : 

“ I must ask pardon of you, Lucy, for so strangely absenting 
myself last night. But you know me well enough to be veiy 
sure that I would not have done so without important cause. 
I was in the street approaching your cottage, when a message 
reached me, imperatively calling me away. It is a matter 
which will take up all my time and attention for, possibly, two 
or three days. I tell you this, now, that you may be pre- 
pared for it. And I know that however unwelcome this may 
be to you, you will yet bear with it for my sake ; for, indeed, 
and indeed, Lucy dear, I would not dream of staying from you 
so long, unless irresistibly coerced to it. Do not come to the 
mansion until I come to you ; and do not manifest any cu- 
riosity or anxiety about me, should you chance in the interval 
to see my mother in any other place. Keep just as cheerful as 
if I were by you all the time. Do this, now, I conjure you *, 
and so farewell !” 

He folded the note, and was about sealing it, when he hesi- 
tated a moment, and instantly unfolding it, read it to himself. 
But he could not adequately comprehend his own writing, for 
a sudden cloud came over him. This passed ; and taking his 
pen hundedly again, he added the following postscript : 

“ Lucy, this note may seem mysterious ; but if it shall, I 
did not mean to make it so ; nor do I know that I could have 
helped it. But the only reason is this, Lucy : the matter 
which I have alluded to, is of such a nature, that, for the pres- 
ent I stand virtually pledged not to disclose it to any person 
but those more directly involved in it. But where one can not 


PIERRE. 


127 


reveal the thing itself, it only makes it the more mysterious to 
write round it this way. So merely know me entirely unmen- 
aced in person, and eternally faithful to you ; and so he at rest 
till I see you.” 

Then sealing the note, and ringing the bell, he gave it in 
strict charge to a servant, with directions to deliver it at the 
earliest practicable moment, and not wait for any answer. But 
as the messenger was departing the chamber, he called him 
back, and taking the sealed note again, and hollowing it in his 
hand, scrawled inside of it in pencil the following words : 
“ Don’t write me ; don’t inquire for me and then returned it 
to the man, who quitted him, leaving Pierre rooted in thought 
in the middle of the room. 

But he soon roused himself, and left the mansion ; and 
seeking the cool, refreshing meadow stream, where it formed 
a deep and shady pool, he bathed ; and returning invigorated 
to his chamber, changed his entire dress ; in the little trifling 
concernments of his toilette, striving utterly to banish all 
thought of that weight upon his soul. Never did he array 
himself with more solicitude for effect. It was one of his fond 
mother’s whims to perfume the lighter contents of his ward- 
robe ; and it was one of his own little femininenesses — of the 
sort sometimes curiously observable in very robust-bodied and 
big-souled men, as Mohammed, for example — to be very partial 
to all pleasant essences. So that when once more he left the 
mansion in order to freshen his cheek anew to meet the keen 
glance of his mother — to whom the secret of his possible pallor 
could not be divulged ; Pierre went forth all redolent ; but 
alas ! his body only the embalming cerements of his buried 
dead within. 


128 


PIERRE. 


IV. 

His stroll was longer than he meant ; and when he re- 
turned up the Linden walk leading to the hreakfast-room, and 
ascended the piazza steps, and glanced into the wide window 
there, he saw his mother steated not far from the table ; her 
face turned toward his own ; and heard her gay voice, and pecu- 
liarly light and buoyant laugh, accusing him, and not her, of 
being the morning’s laggard now. Dates was busy among some 
spoons and napkins at a side-stand. 

Summoning all possible cheerfulness to his face, Pierre en- 
tered the room. Remembering his carefulness in bathing and 
dressing ; and knowing that there is no air so calculated to giva 
bloom to the cheek as that of a damply fresh, cool^ and misty 
morning, Pierre persuaded himself that small trace would now 
be found on him of his long night of watching. 

“ Good morning sister ; — Such a famous stroll ! I have 
been all the way to — ” 

“ Where? good heavens! where? for such a look as that ! 
— ^why, Pierre, Pierre ? what ails thee ? Dates, I will touch 
the bell presently.” 

As the good servitor fumbled for a moment among the nap- 
kins, as if unwilling to stir so summarily from his accustomed 
duty, and not without some of a well and long-tried old domes- 
tic’s vague, intermitted murmuring, at being wholly excluded 
from a matter of family interest ; Mrs. Glendinning kept her 
fixed eye on Pierre, who, unmindful that the breakfast was not 
yet entirely ready, seating himself at the table, began helping 
himself — though but nervously enough — to the cream and 
sugar. The moment the door closed on Dates, the mother 
sprang to her feet, and threw her arms around her son ; but in 
that embrace, Pierre miserably felt that their two hearts beat 
lot together in such unison as before. 


PIERRE. 


129 


“ What haggard thing possesses thee, my son ? Speak, this 
is incomprehensible ! Lucy ; — fie ! — not she ? — no love-quar- 
rel there ; — speak, speak, my darling boy !” 

“ My dear sister,” began Pierre. 

“ Sister me not, now, Pierre ; — I am thy mother.” 

“ Well, then, dear mother, thou art quite as incomprehensi- 
ble to me as I to” — 

“ Talk faster, Pierre — this calmness freezes me. Tell me ; 
for, by my soul, something most wonderful must have hap- 
pened to thee. Thou art my son, and I command thee. It is 
not Lucy ; it is something else. Tell me.” 

“ My dear mother,” said Pierre, impulsively moving his chair 
backward from the table, “ if thou wouldst only believe me 
when I say it, I have really nothing to tell thee. Thou knowest 
that sometimes, when I happen to feel very foolishly studious and 
philosophical, I sit up late in my chamber ; and then, regard- 
less of the hour, foolishly run out into the air, for a long stroll 
across the meadows. I took such a stroll last night ; and had 
but little time left for napping afterward ; and what nap I had 
I was none the better for. But I won’t be so silly again, soon ; 
so do, dearest mother, stop looking at me, and let us to break- 
fast. — Dates ! Touch the bell there, sister.” 

“ Stay, Pierre ! — There is a heaviness in this hour. I feel, I 
know, that thou art deceiving me ; — perhaps I erred in seeking 
to wrest thy secret from thee ; but believe me, my son, I never 
thought thou hadst any secret thing from me, except thy first 
love for Lucy — and that, my own womanhood tells me, was 
most pardonable and right. But now, what can it be ? Pierre, 
Pierre ! consider well before thou determinest upon withholding 
confidence from me. I am thy mother. It may prove a fatal 
thing. Can that be good and virtuous, Pierre, which shrinks 
from a mother’s knowledge ? Let us not loose hands so, Pierre ; 
thy confidence from me, mine goes from thee. Now, shall I 
touch the bell ?” 


130 


PIERRE. 


Pierre, who had thus far been vainly seeking to occupy his 
hands with his cup and spoon ; he now paused, and unconscious- 
ly fastened a speechless glance of mournfulness upon his mother. 
Again he felt presentiments of his mother’s newly-revealed 
character. He foresaw the supposed indignation of her wound- 
ed pride; her gradually estranged affections thereupon;, he 
knew her firmness, and her exaggerated ideas of the inaliena- 
ble allegiance of a son. He trembled to think, that now in- 
deed was come the fii-st initial moment of his heavy trial. But 
though he knew all the significance of his mother’s attitude, as 
she stood before him, intently eying him, with one hand upon 
the bell-cord ; and though he felt that the same opening of the 
door that should now admit Dates, could not but give eternal 
exit to all confidence between him and his mother ; and though 
he felt, too, that this was his mother’s latent thought ; never- 
theless, he was girded up in his well-considered resolution. 

“ Pierre, Pieire ! shall I touch the bell ?” 

“ Mother, stay ! — yes do, sister.” 

The bell was rung ; and at the summons Dates entered ; 
and looking with some significance at Mi*s. Glendinning, said, 
— “ His Reverence has come, my mistress, and is now in the 
west parlor.” 

“ Show Mr. Palsgrave in here immediately ; and bring up 
the coffee ; did I not tell you I expected him to breakfast this 
morning ?” 

“ Yes, my mistress ; but I thought that — that~just then” 
— glancing alarmedly from mother to son. 

“ Oh, my good Dates, nothing has happened,” cried Mrs. 
Glendinning, lightly, and with a bitter smile, looking toward 
her son, — “ show Mr. Palsgrave in. Pierre, I did not see thee, 
to tell thee, last night ; but Mr. Palsgrave breakfasts with us 
by invitation. I was at the parsonage yesterday, to see him 
about that wretched affair of Delly, and we are finally to settle 
upon what is to be done this morning. But my mind is made 


PIERRE. 


131 


up concerning Ned ; no such profligate shall pollute this place ; 
nor shall the disgraceful Delly.” 

Fortunately, the abrupt entrance of the clergyman, here 
turned away attention from the sudden pallor of Pierre’s coun- 
tenance, and afibrded him time to rally. 

“ Good morning, madam ; good morning, sir said Mr. 
Palsgrave, in a singularly mild, flute-like voice, turning to 
Mrs. Glendinning and her son ; the lady receiving him with 
answering cordiality, but Pierre too embarrassed just then to be 
equally polite. As for one brief moment Mr. Palsgrave stood 
before the pair, ere taking the offered chair from Dates, his as- 
pect was eminently attractive. 

There are certain ever-to-be-cherislied moments in the life 
of almost any man, when a variety of little foregoing circum- 
stances all unite to make him temporarily oblivious of whatever 
may be hard and bitter in his life, and also to make him most 
amiably and ruddily disposed ; when the scene and company 
immediately before him are highly agreeable ; and if at such 
’'a time he chance involuntarily to put himself into a scenically 
favorable bodily posture ; then, in that posture, however tran- 
sient, thou shalt catch the noble stature of his Better Angel ; 
catch a heavenly glimpse of the latent heavenliness of man. 
It was so with Mr. Palsgrave now. Not a house within a 
circuit of fifty miles that he .preferred entering before the 
mansion-house of Saddle Meadows ; and though the business 
upon which he had that morning come, was any thing but 
relishable to him, yet that subject was not in his memory 
then. Before him stood united in one person, the most ex- 
alted lady and the most storied beauty of all the country 
round ; and the finest, most intellectual, and most congenial 
youth he knew. Before him also, stood the generous foun- 
dress and the untiring patroness of the beautiful little marble 
church, consecrated by the good Bishop, not four years gone 
by. Before him also, stood — though in polite disguise — the 


132 


PIERRE. 


same untiring benefactress, from whose purse, he could not 
help suspecting, came a great part of his salary, nominally sup- 
plied by the rental of the pews. He had been invited to 
breakfast ; a meal, which, in a well-appointed country family, 
is the most cheerful circumstance of daily life ; he smelt all 
Java’s spices in the aroma from the silver coftee-urn ; and well 
he knew, what liquid deliciousness would soon come from it. 
Besides all this, and many more minutenesses of the kind, he 
was conscious that Mrs. Gendinning entertained a particular 
partiality for him (though not enough to marry him, as he ten 
times knew by very bitter experience), and that Pierre was not 
behindhand in his esteem. 

And the clergyman was well worthy of it. Nature had 
been royally bountiful to him in his person. In his happier 
moments, as the present, his face was radiant with a courtly, 
but mild benevolence ; his person was nobly robust and digni- 
fied ; while the remarkable smallness of his feet, and the almost 
infantile delicacy, and vivid whiteness and purity of his hands, 
strikingly contrasted* with his fine girth and stature. For in 
countries like America, where there is no distinct hereditary 
caste of gentlemen, whose order is factitiously perpetuated as 
race-horses and lords are in kingly lands ; and especially, in 
those agricultural districts, where, of a hundred hands, that drop 
a ballot for the Presidency, ninety-nine shall be of the brownest 
and the brawniest ; in such districts, this daintiness of the 
fingers, when united with a generally manly aspect, assumes a 
remarkableness unknown in European nations. 

This most prepossessing form of the clergyman lost nothin^ 
by the character of his manners, which were polished and un- 
obtrusive, but peculiarly insinuating, without the least appear- 
*ance of craftiness or affectation. Heaven had given him his 
jfine, silver-keyed person for a flute to play on in this world ; 
and he was nearly the perfect master of it. His graceful 
motions had the undulatoriness of melodious sounds. You 


F I E B K E . 


133 


almost thought you heard, not saw him. So much the won- 
derful, yet natural gentleman he seemed, that more than once 
Mrs. Glendinning had held him up to Pierre as a splendid 
example of the polishing and gentlemanizing influences of 
Christianity upon the mind and manners ; declaring, that ex- 
travagant as it might seem, she had always been of his father’s 
fancy, — ^that no man could be a complete gentleman, and pre- 
side with dignity at his own table, unless he partook of the 
church’s sacraments. Nor in Mr. Palsgrave’s case was this 
maxim entirely absurd. The child of a poor northern farmer 
who had wedded a pretty sempstress, the clergyman had no 
heraldic line of ancestry to show, as warrant and explanation 
of his handsome person and gentle manners ; the first, being 
the willful partiality of nature ; and the second, the consequence 
of a scholastic life, attempered by a taste for the choicest fe- 
male society, however small, which he had always regarded as 
the best relish of existence. If now his manners thus responded 
to his person, his mind answered to them both, and was their 
finest illustration. Besides his eloquent persuasiveness in the 
pulpit, various fugitive papers upon subjects of nature, art, and 
literature, attested not only his refined affinity to all beautiful 
things, visible or invisible ; but likewise that he possessed a 
genius for celebrating such things, which in a less indolent and 
more ambitious nature, would have been sure to have gained a 
fair poet’s name ere now. For this Mr. Falsgi’ave was just 
hovering upon his prime of years ; a period which, in such a 
man, is the sweetest, and, to a mature woman, by far the most 
attractive of manly life. Youth has not yet completely gone 
with its beauty, grace, and strength ; nor has age at all come 
with its decrepitudes ; though the finest undressed parts of it — 
its mildness and its wisdona — have gone on before, as decorous 
chamberlains precede the sedan of some crutched king. 

Such was this Mr. Palsgrave, who now sat at Mrs. Glendin- 
ning’s breakfast table, a corner of one of that lady’s generous 


134 


PIERRE. 


napkins so inserted into his snowy bosom, that its folds almost 
invested him as far down as the table’s edge ; and he seemed a 
sacred priest, indeed, breakfasting in his surplice. 

“ Pray, Mr. Palsgrave,” said Mrs. Glendinning, “ break me 
off a bit of that roll.” 

Whether or not his sacerdotal experiences had strangely re- 
fined and spiritualized so simple a process as breaking bread ; 
or whether it was from the spotless aspect of his hands : certain 
it is that Mr. Falsgi-ave acquitted himself on this little occasion, 
in a manner that beheld of old by Leonardo, might have given 
that artist no despicable hint touching his celestial painting. 
As Pierre regarded him, sitting there so mild and meek ; such 
an image of white-browed and white-handed, and napkined 
immaculateness ; and as he felt the gentle humane radiations 
which came from the clergyman’s manly and rounded beauti- 
fulness ; and as he remembered all the good that he knew of 
this man, and all the good that he had heard of him, and could 
recall no blemish in his character ; and as in his own con- 
cealed misery and forlornness, he contemplated the open benev- 
olence, and beaming excellent-heartedness of Mr. Palsgrave, 
the thought darted through his mind, that if any living being 
was capable of giving him worthy counsel in his strait ; and if 
to any one he could go with Christian propriety and some 
small hopefulness, that person was the one before him. 

“ Pray, Mr. Glendinning,” said the clergyman, pleasantly, as 
Pierre was silently ofiering to help him to some tongue — “ don’t 
let me rob you of it — pardon me, but you seem to have very 
little yourself this morning, I think. An execrable pun, I know : 
but” — turning toward Mrs. Glendinning — “ when one is made 
to feel very happy, one is somehow apt to say very silly things. 
Happiness and silliness — ah, it’s a suspicious coincidence.” 

“Mr. Palsgi’ave,” said the hostess — “Your cup is empty. 
Dates! — We were talking yesterday, Mr. Palsgrave, concerning 
that vile fellow, Ned.” 


PIE REE. 


185 


“ Well, Madam,” responded the gentleman, a very little un- 
easily. 

“ He shall not stay on any ground of mine ; my mind is 
made up, sir. Infamous man! — did he not have a wife as 
virtuous and beautiful now, as when I fii-st gave her away at 
your altar ? — It was the sheerest and most gi’atuitous profli- 
gacy.” 

The clergyman mournfully and assentingly moved his head. 

“ Such men,” continued the lady, flushing with the sincerest 
indignation — “ are to my way of thinking more detestable than 
murderers.” 

“ That is being a little hard upon them, my dear Madam,” 
said Mr. Falsgrave, mildly. 

“ Do you not think so, Pierre” — now, said the lady, turning 
earnestly upon her son — “ is not the man, who has sinned like 
that Ned, worse than a murderer ? Has he not sacrificed one 
woman completely, and given infamy to another — to both of 
them— for their portion. If his own legitimate boy should now 
hate him, I could hardly blame him.” 

“ My dear Madam,” said the clergyman, whose eyes having 
followed Mrs. Glendinning’s to her son’s countenance, and 
marking a strange trepidation there, had thus far been earnestly 
scrutinizing Pierre’s not wholly repressive emotion ; — “ My dear 
Madam,” he said, slightly bending over his stately episcopal- 
looking person — “Virtue has, perhaps, an over-ardent cham- 
pion in you ; you grow too warm ; but Mr. Glendinning, here, 
he seems to grow too cold. Pray, favor us with your views, 
Mr. Glendinning ?” 

“I will not think now of the man,” said Pierre, slowly, and 
looking away from both his auditors — “ let us speak of Delly 
and her infant — she has, or had one, I have loosely heard ; — 
their case is miserable indeed.” 

“ The mother deserves it,” said the lady, inflexibly — “ and 
the child — Reverend sir, what are the words of the Bible ?” 


136 


PIERRE. 


“ ‘ The sins of the father shall be visited upon the children to 
the third generation,’ ” said Mr. Falsgrave, with some slight re- 
luctance in his tones. “But Madam, that does not mean, that 
the community is in any way to take the infamy of the chil- 
dren into their own voluntary hands, as the conscious delegated 
stewards of God’s inscrutable dispensations. Because it is de- 
clared that the infamous consequences of sin shall be hereditary, 
it does not follow that our personal and active loathing of sin, 
should descend from the sinful sinner to his sinless child.” 

“I understand you, sir,” said Mrs. Glendinning, coloring 
slightly, “ you think me too censorious. But if we entirely for- 
get the parentage of the child, and every way receive the child 
as we would any other, feel for it in all respects the same, and 
attach no sign of ignominy to it — how then is the Bible dispen- 
sation to be fulfilled ? Do we not then put ourselves in the 
way of its fulfilment, and is that wholly free from impiety ?” 

Here it was the clergyman’s turn to color a little, and there 
was a just perceptible tremor of the under lip. 

“ Pardon me,” continued the lady, courteously, “ but if there 
is any one blemish in the character of the Reverend Mr. Pals- 
grave, it is that the benevolence of his heart, too much warps 
in him the holy rigor of our Church’s doctrines. For my part, 
as I loathe the man, I loathe the woman, and never desire to 
behold the child.” 

A pause ensued, during which it was fortunate for Pierre, 
that by the social sorcery of such occasions as the present, the 
eyes of all three were intent upon the cloth ; all three for the 
moment, giving loose to their own distressful meditations upon 
the subject in debate, and Mr. Falsgrave vexedly thinking that 
the scene was becoming a little embarrassing. 

Pierre was the first who spoke ; as before, he steadfastly 
kept his eyes away from both his auditors ; but though he did 
not designate his mother, something in the tone of his voice 
showed that what he said was addressed more particularly to her. 


PIEKRE. 


la^ 

“ Since we seem to have been strangely drawn into the ethicai 
aspect of this melancholy matter,” said he, “ suppose we go 
further in it; and let me ask, how it should be between the 
legitimate and the illegitimate child — children of one father — 
when they shall have passed their childhood ?” 

Here the clergyman quickly raising his eyes, looked as sur- 
prised and searchingly at Pierre, as his politeness would permit 

“ Upon my word” — said Mrs. Glendinning, hardly less sur- 
prised, and making no attempt at disguising it — “ this is an 
odd question you put ; you have been more attentive to the 
subject than I had fancied. But what do you mean, Pierre ? 
I did not entirely understand you.” 

“ Should the legitimate child shun the illegitimate, when one 
father is father to both ?” rejoined Pierre, bending his head still 
further over his plate. 

The clergyman looked a little down again, and was silent 
but still turned his head slightly sideways toward his hostess, 
as if awaiting some reply to Pierre from her. 

“ Ask the world, Pierre” — said Mi’s. Glendinning warmly — 
“ and ask your own heart.” 

“ My own heart ? I will. Madam” — said Pierre, now looking 
up steadfastly; “but what do you think, Mr. Palsgrave?” let 
ting his glance drop again — “ should the one shun the other 
should the one refuse his highest sympathy and perfect love fo 
the other, especially if that other be deserted by all the rest o 
the world ? What think you would have been our blessed 
Savior’s thoughts on such a matter ? And what was that he 
so mildly said to the adulteress ?” 

A swift color passed over the clergyman’s countenance, suf- 
fusing even his expanded brow ; he slightly moved in his chair, 
and looked uncertainly from Pierre to his mother. He seemed 
as a shrewd, benevolent-minded man, placed between opposite 
opinions — merely opinions — who, with a full, and doubly-dif- 
fering persuasion in himself, still refrains from uttering it, be- 


138 


PIERRE. 


cause of an irresistible dislike to manifesting an absolute dissent 
from the honest convictions of any person, whom he both so- 
cially and morally esteems. 

“ Well, what do you reply to my son ?” — said Mrs. Glendin- 
ning at last. 

“ Madam and sir” — said the clergyman, now regaining his 
entire self-possession. “ It is one of the social disadvantages 
which we of the pulpit labor under, that we are supposed to 
know more of the moral obligations of humanity than other 
people. And it is a still more serious disadvantage to the 
world, that our unconsidered, conversational opinions on the 
most complex problems of ethics, are too apt to be considered 
authoritative, as indirectly proceeding from the church itself. 
Now, nothing can be more erroneous than such notions ; and 
nothing so embarrasses me, and deprives me of that entire 
serenity, which is indispensable to the dehvery of a careful 
opinion on moral subjects, than when sudden questions of this 
sort are put to me in company. Pardon this long preamble, 
for I have little more to say. It is not every question, however 
direct, Mr. Glendinning, which can be conscientiously answered 
with a yes or no. Millions of circumstances modify all moral 
questions ; so that though conscience may possibly dictate freely 
in any known special case ; yet, by one univei-sal maxim, to 
embrace all moral contingencies, — ^this is not only impossible, 
but the attempt, to me, seems foolish.” 

At this instant, the sui-plice-like napkin dropped from the 
clergyman’s bosom, showing a minute but exquisitely cut cameo 
brooch, representing the allegorical union of the serpent and 
dove. It had been the gift of an appreciative friend, and was 
sometimes worn on secular occasions like the present. 

“ I agree with you, sir” — said Pierre, bowing. “ I fully agree 
with you. And now, madam, let us talk of something else.” 

“You madam me very punctihously this morning, Mr. 
Glendinning” — said his mother, half-bitterly smiling, and half- 


PIEERE. 


189 


openly offended, but still more surprised at Pierre’s frigid de- 
meanor. 

“ ‘ Honor thy father and mother ” said Pierre — “ both 
father and mother,” he unconsciously added. “ And now that 
it strikes me, Mr. Palsgrave, and now that we have become so 
strangely polemical this morning, let me say, that as that com- 
mand is justly said to be the only one with a promise, so it 
seems to be without any contingency in the application. It 
would seem — would it not, sir ? — that the most deceitful and 
hypocritical of fathers should be equally honored by the son, as 
the purest.” 

“ So it would certainly seem, according to the strict letter of 
the Decalogue — certainly.” 

“ And do you think, sir, that it should be so held, and so 
applied in actual life ? For instance, should I honor my father, 
if I knew him to be a seducer ?” 

“ Pien-e ! Pierre !” said his mother, profoundly coloring, and 
half rising ; “ there is no need of these argumentative assump- 
tions. You very immensely forget yourself this morning.” 

“ It is merely the interest of the general question. Madam,” 
returned Pierre, coldly. “ I am sorry. If your former objec- 
tion does not apply here, Mr. Palsgrave, will you favor me with 
an answer to my question ?” 

“ There you are again, Mr. Glendinning,” said the clergyman, 
thankful for Pierre’s hint ; “ that is another question in morals 
absolutely incapable of a definite answer, which shall be uni- 
versally applicable.” Again the surplice-like napkin chanced 
to drop. 

“ I am tacitly rebuked again then, sir,” said Pierre, slowly ; 
“ but I admit that perhaps you are again in the right. And 
now. Madam, since Mr. Palsgrave and yourself have a little 
business together, to which my presence is not necessary, and 
may possibly prove quite dispensable, permit me to leave you. 
I am going off on a long ramble, so you need not wait dinner 


140 


PIERRE. 


for me. Good morning, Mr. Falsgrave ; good morning, Mad- 
am,” looking toward his mother. 

As the door closed upon him, Mr. Falsgime spoke — “ Mr. 
Glendinning looks a little pale to-day : has he been ill 

“ Not that I know of,” answered the lady, indifferently, “ but 
did you ever see young gentleman so stately as he was ? Ex- 
traordinary !” she murmured ; “ what can this mean — Madam 
— ^Madam ? But your cup is empty again, sir” — reaching forth 
her hand. 

“ No more, no more. Madam,” said the clergyman. 

“ Madam ? pray don’t Madam me any more, Mr. Falsgrave ; 
I have taken a sudden hatred to that title.” 

“ Shall it be Your Majesty, then ?” said the clergyman, gal- 
lantly ; “ the May Queens are so styled, and so should be the 
Queens of October.” 

Here the lady laughed. “ Come,” said she, “ let us go into 
another room, and settle the affair of that infamous Ned and 
that miserable Delly.” 


Y. 

The swiftness and unrepellableness of the billow which, with 
its first shock, had so profoundly whelmed Pierre, had not only 
poured into his soul a tumult of entirely new images and emo- 
tions, but, for the time, it almost entirely drove out of him all 
previous ones. The things that any way bore directly upon the 
pregnant fact of Isabel, these things were all animate and vivid- 
ly present to him ; but the things which bore more upon him- 
self, and his own personal condition, as now forever involved 
with his sister’s, these things were not so animate and present 
to him. The conjectured past of Isabel took mysterious hold 
of his father ; therefore, the idea of his father tyrannized over 


PIERRE. 


141 


his imagination ; and the possible future of Isabel, as so essen- 
tially though indirectly compromisable by whatever course 
of conduct his mother might hereafter ignorantly pursue with 
regard to himself, as henceforth, through Isabel, forever altered 
to her ; these considerations brought his mother with blazing 
prominence before him. 

Heaven, after all, hath been a little merciful to the miserable 
man ; not entirely untempered to human nature are the most 
direful blasts of Fate. When on all sides assailed by prospects 
of disaster, whose final ends are in terror hidden from it, the 
soul of man — either, as instinctively convinced that it can not 
battle with the whole host at once ; or else, benevolently blind- 
ed to the larger arc of the circle which menacingly hems it in ; 
— whichever be the truth, the soul of man, thus surrounded, 
can not, and does never intelligently confront the totality of its 
wretchedness. The bitter drug is divided into separate draughts 
for him : to-day he takes one part of his woe ; to-moiTow he 
takes more ; and so on, till the last drop is drunk. 

Hot that in the despotism of other things, the thought of 
Lucy, and the unconjecturable suffering into which she might 
so soon be plunged, owing to the threatening uncertainty of the 
state of his own future, as now in great part and at all hazards 
dedicated to Isabel ; not that this thought had thus far been 
alien to him. Icy-cold, and serpent-like, it had overlayingly 
crawled in upon his other shuddering imaginings; but those 
other thoughts would as often upheave again, and absorb it 
into themselves, so that it would in that way soon disappear 
from his coteraporary apprehension. The pervailing thoughts 
connected with Isabel he now could front with prepared and 
open eyes ; but the occasional thought of Lucy, when that 
started up before him, he could only cover his bewildered eyes 
with his bewildered hands. Nor was this the cowardice of 
selfishness, but the infinite sensitiveness of his soul. He could 
bear the agonizing thought of Isabel, because he was immedi- 


142 


PIERBE. 


ately resolved to help her, and to assuage a fellow-being’s grief ; 
but, as yet, he could not bear the thought of Lucy, because the 
very resolution that promised balm to Isabel obscurely involved 
the everlasting peace of Lucy, and therefore aggravatmgiy 
threatened a far more than fellow-being’s happiness. 

Well for Pierre it was, that the penciling presentiments of 
Ins mind concerning Lucy as quickly erased as painted their 
tormenting images. Standing half-befogged upon the moun- 
tain of his Fate, all that j)art of the wide panorama w'as 
wrapped in clouds to him ; but anon those concealings slid 
aside, or rather, a quick rent was made in them ; disclosing far 
below, half-vailed in the lower mist, the winding tranquil vale 
and stream of Lucy’s previous happy hfe ; through the swift cloud- 
rent he caught one glimpse of her expectant and angelic face peep- 
ing from the honey-suckled window of her cottage ; and the next 
instant the stormy pinions of the clouds locked themselves over it 
again ; and all was hidden as before ; and all went confused in 
whirling rack and vapor as before. Only by unconscious in- 
spiration, caught from the agencies invisible to man, had he 
been enabled to write that first obscurely announcing note to 
Lucy; wherein the collectedness, and the mildness, and the 
calmness, were but the natural though insidious precursors of the 
stunning bolts on bolts to follow. 

But, while thus, for the most part wrapped from his con- 
sciousness and vision, still, the condition of his Lucy, as so 
deeply affected now, was still more and more disentangling 
and defining itself from out its nearer mist, and even beneath 
the general upper fog. For when unfathomably stii-red, the 
subtler elements of man do not always reveal themselves in 
the concocting act ; but, as with all other potencies, show 
themselves chiefly in their ultimate resolvings and results. 
Strange wild work, and awfully symmetrical and reciprocal, 
was that now going on within the self-apparently chaotic breast 
of Pierre. As in his own conscious determinations, the mourn- 


PIERRE. 


143 


ful Isabel was being snatched from her captivity of world-wide 
abandonment ; so, deeper down in the more secret chambers 
of his unsuspecting soul, the smiling Lucy, now as dead and 
ashy pale, was being bound a ransom for Isabel’s salvation. 
Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth. Eternally inexorable and un- 
concerned is Fate, a mere heartless trader in men’s joys and 
woes. 

Nor was this general and spontaneous self-concealment of 
all the most momentous interests of his love, as irretrievably 
involved with Isabel and his resolution respecting her ; nor was 
this unbidden thing in him unseconded by the prompting of 
his own conscious judgment, when in the tyranny of the master- 
event itself, that judgment was permitted some infrequent play. 
He could not but be aware, that all meditation on Lucy now 
was worse than useless. How could he now map out his and 
her young life-chart, when all was yet misty-white with creamy 
breakers ! Still more : divinely dedicated as he felt himself to 
be ; with divine commands upon him to befriend and champion 
Isabel, through all conceivable contingencies of Time and 
Chance ; how could he insure himself against the insidious in- 
roads of self-interest, and hold intact all his unselfish mag- 
nanimities, if once he should permit the distracting thought 
of Lucy to dispute with Isabel’s the pervading possession of 
his soul ? 

And if— -though but unconsciously as yet — he was almost 
superhumanly prepared to make a sacrifice of all objects dearest 
to him, and cut himself away from his last hopes of common 
happiness, should they cross his grand enthusiast resolution ; — 
if this was so with him ; then, how light as gossamer, and 
thinner and more impalpable than airiest threads of gauze, did 
ho hold all common conventional regardings ; — his hereditary 
duty to his mother, his pledged worldly faith and honor to the 
hand and seal of his affiancement? 

Not that at present all these things did thus present them- 


144 


PIEKRE. 


selves to Pierre; but these things were foetally forming in 
him. Impregnations from high enthusiasms he had received ; 
and the now incipient offspring which so stirred, with such 
painful, vague vibrations in his soul ; this, in its mature de- 
velopment, when it should at last come forth in living deeds, 
would scorn all personal relationship with Pierre, and hold his 
heart’s dearest interests for naught. 

Thus, in the Enthusiast to Duty, the heaven-begotten Christ 
is born ; and will not own a mortal parent, and spurns and 
rends all mortal bonds. 


YI. 

One night, one day, and a small part of the one ensuing 
evening had been given to Pierre to prepare for the momentous 
interview with Isabel. 

Now, thank God, thought Pierre, the night is past,^ — the 
night of Chaos and of Doom ; the day only, and the skirt of 
evening now remain. May heaven new-string my soul, and 
confii-m me in the Christ-like feeling I first felt. May I, in all 
my least shapeful thoughts still square myself by the inflexible 
rule of holy right. Let no unmanly, mean temptation cross my 
path this day ; let no base stone lie in it. This day I will for- 
sake the censuses of men, and seek the suffrages of the god-like 
population of the trees, which now seem to me a nobler race 
than man. Their high foliage shall drop heavenliness upon me ; 
my feet in contact with their mighty roots, immortal vigor shall 
so steal into me. Guide me, gird me, guard me, this day, ye 
sovereign powers ! Bind me in bonds I can not break ; remove 
all sinister allurings from me ; eternally this day deface in me 
the detested and distorted images of all the convenient lies and 
duty-subterfuges of the diving and ducking moralities of this 


PIERRE. 


145 


earth. Fill me with consuming fire for them ; to my life’s 
muzzle, cram me with your own intent. Let no world-syren 
come to sing to me this day, and wheedle from me my un- 
dauntedness. I cast my eternal die this day, ye powei-s. On 
my strong faith in ye Invisibles, I stake three whole felicities, 
and three whole lives this day. If ye forsake me now, — fare- 
well to Faith, farewell to Truth, farewell to God; exiled for 
aye from God and man, I shall declare myself an equal power 
with both; free to make war on Night and Day, and all 
thoughts and things of mind and matter, which the upper and 
the nether firmaments do clasp ! 


YU. 

But Pierre, though charged with the fire of all divineness, 
his containing thing was made of clay. Ah, muskets the gods 
have made to carry infinite combustions, and yet made them of 
clay ! 

Save me from being bound to Truth, liege lord, as I am now. 
How shall I steal yet further into Pierre, and show how this 
heavenly fire was helped to be contained in him, by mere con- 
tingent things, and things that he knew not. But I shall fol- 
low the endless, winding way, — the flowing river in the cave of 
man ; careless whither I be led, reckless where I land. 

W^as not the face — though mutely mournful — beautiful, be- 
witchingly ? How unfathomable those most wondrous eyes 
of supernatural light ! In those charmed depths. Grief and 
Beauty plunged and dived together. So beautiful, so mystical, 
so bewilderingly alluring; speaking of a mournfulness infinitely 
sweeter and more attractive than all mirthfulness ; that face of 
glorious suffering ; that face of touching loveliness ; that face 
tyfL«4 Pierre’s own sister’s ; that face was Isabel s ; that face 

G 


146 


PIERRE. 


Pierre had visibly seen ; into those same supernatural eyes our 
Pierre had looked. Thus, already, and ere the proposed en- 
counter, he was assured that, in a transcendent degree, woman- 
ly beauty, and not womanly ugliness, invited him to champion 
the right. Be naught concealed in this book of sacred truth. 
How, if accosted in some squalid lane, a humped, and crippled, 
hideous girl should have snatched his garment’s hem, with— 
“ Save me, Pierre — love me, own me, brother ; I am thy sis- 
ter 1” — Ah, if man where wholly made in heaven, why catch we 
hell-glimpses ? Why in the noblest marble pillar that stands 
beneath the all-comprising vault, ever should we descry the 
sinister vein? We lie in nature very close to God; and 
though, further on, the stream may be coi-rupted by the banks 
it flows through ; yet at the fountain’s rim, where mankind 
stand, there the stream infallibly bespeaks the fountain. 

So let no censorious word be here hinted of mortal Pierre. 
Easy for me to slyly hide these things, and always put him be- 
fore the eye as perfect as immaculate; unsusceptible to the 
inevitable nature and the lot of common men. I am more 
frank with Pierre than the best men are with themselves. I 
am all unguarded and magnanimous with Pierre ; therefore you 
see- his weakness, and therefore only. In reserves men build 
imposing characters; not in revelations. He who shall be 
wholly honest, though nobler than Ethan Allen ; that man 
shall stand in danger of the meanest mortal’s scorn. 


BOOK VI. 


ISABEL, AND THE FIRST PART OF THE STORY 
OF ISABEL. 


I. 

Half wishful that the hour would come ; half shuddering 
that every moment it still came nearer and more near to him ; 
dry-eyed, but wet with that dark day’s rain ; at fall of eve, 
Pien’e emerged from long wanderings in the primeval woods 
of Saddle Meadows, and for one instant stood motionless upon 
their sloping skirt. 

Where he stood was in the rude wood road, only used by 
sledges in the time of snow ; just where the out-posted trees 
formed a narrow arch, and fancied gateway leading upon the 
far, wide pastures oTVieping down toward the lake. In that 
wet and misty eve the scattered, shivering pasture elms seemed 
standing in a world inhospitable, yet rooted by inscrutable 
sense of duty to their place. Beyond, the lake lay in one 
sheet of blankness and of dumbness, unstirred by breeze or 
breath ; fast bound there it lay, with not life enough to reflect 
the smallest shrub or twig. Yet in that lake was seen the 
duplicate, stirless sky above. Only in sunshine did that lake 
catch gay, green images ; and these but displaced the imaged 
muteness of the unfeatured heavens. 

On both sides, in the remoter distance, and also far beyond 
the mild lake’s further shore, rose the long, mysterious moun 


148 


PIERRE. 


lain masses ; shaggy with pines and hemlocks, mystical with 
nameless, vapory exhalations, and in that dim air black with 
dread and gloom. At their base, profoundest forests lay en- 
tranced, and from their far owl-haunted depths of caves and 
rotted leaves, and unused and unregarded inland overgrowth 
of decaying wood — for smallest sticks of which, in other climes 
many a pauper was that moment perishing ; from out the infi- 
nite inhumanities of those profoundest forests, came a moan- 
ing, muttering, roaring, intermitted, changeful sound : rain- 
shakings of the palsied trees, slidings of rocks undermined, 
final crashings of long- riven boughs, and devilish gibberish oi 
the forest-ghosts. 

But more near, on the mild lake’s hither shore, where it 
formed a long semi-circular and scooped acclivity of corn-fields, 
there the small and low red farm-house lay ; its ancient roof a 
bed of brightest mosses ; its north front (from the north the 
moss-wind blows), also moss-incrusted, like the north side of 
any vast-trunked maple in the groves. At one gabled end, a 
tangled arbor claimed support, and paid for it by generous gra- 
tuities of broad-flung verdure, one viny shaft of which pointed 
itself upright against the chimney-bricks, as if a waving light- 
ning-rod. Against the other gable, you saw the lowly dairy- 
shed ; its sides close netted with traced Madeira vines ; and 
had you been close enough, peeping through that imprisoning 
tracery, and through the light slats barring the little embrasure 
of a window, you might have seen the gentle and contented 
captives — the pans of milk, and the snow-white Dutch cheeses 
in a row, and the molds of golden butter, and the jars of lily 
cream. In front, three straight gigantic lindens stood guard- 
ians of this verdant spot. A long way up, almost to the ridge- 
pole of the house, they showed little foliage ; but then, sud- 
denly, as three huge green balloons, they poised their three 
vast, inverted, rounded cones of verdure in the air. 

Soon as Pierre’s eye rested on the place, a tremor shook him. 


PIERRE. 


149 


Not alone because of Isabel, as there a harborer now, but be. 
cause of two dependent and most strange coincidences which 
that day’s experience had brought to him. He had gone to 
breakfast with his mother, his heart charged to overflowing 
with presentiments of what would probably be her haughty 
disposition concerning such a being as Isabel, claiming her ma- 
ternal love : and lo ! the Keverend Mr. Falsgrave enters, and 
Ned and Delly are discussed, and that whole sympathetic mat- 
ter, which Pierre had despaired of bringing before his mother 
in all its ethic bearings, so as absolutely to learn her thoughts 
u{>on it, and thereby test his own conjectures ; all that matter 
had been fully talked about ; so that, through that strange co- 
incidence, he now perfectly knew his mother’s mind, and had 
received forewarnings, as if from heaven, not to make any pres- 
ent disclosure to her. That was in the morning ; and now, at 
eve catching a glimpse of the house where Isabel was harboring, 
at once he recognized it as the rented farm-house of old Walter 
Ulver, father to the self-same Delly, forever ruined through the 
cruel arts of Ned. 

Strangest feelings, almost supernatural, now stole into Pierre. 
With little power to touch with awe the souls of less suscepti- 
ble, reflective, and poetic beings, such coincidences, however 
frequently they may recur, ever fill the finer organization with 
sensations which transcend all verbal renderings. They take 
hold of life’s subtlest problem. With the lightning’s flash, the 
query is spontaneously propounded — chance, or God ? If too, 
the mind thus influenced be likewise a prey to any settled grief, 
then on all sides the query magnifies, and at last takes in the 
all-comprehending round of things. For ever is it seen, that 
sincere souls in suffering, then most ponder upon final causes. 
The heart, stirred to its depths, finds correlative sympathy in 
the head, which likewise is profoundly moved. Before miser- 
able men, when intellectual, all the ages of the world pass as 


160 


PIERRE. 


in a manacled procession, and all their myriad links rattle in 
the mournful mystery. 

Pacing beneath the long-skirting shadows of the elevated 
wood, waiting for the appointed hour to come, Pierre strangely 
strove to imagine to himself the scene which was destined to 
ensue. But imagination utterly failed him here ; the reality 
was too real for him ; only the face, the face alone now visited 
him ; and so accustomed had he been of late to confound it 
with the shapes of air, that he almost trembled when he 
thought that face to face, that face must shortly meet his own. 

And now the thicker shadows begin to fall ; the place is lost 
to him ; only the three dim, tall lindens piiot him as he de- 
scends the hill, hovering upon the house. He knows it not, 
but his meditative route is sinuous; as if that moment his 
thought’s stream was likewise serpentining : laterally obstruct- 
ed by insinuated misgivings as to the ultimate utilitarian ad- 
visability of the enthusiast resolution that was his. His steps 
decrease in quickness as he comes more nigh, and sees one fee- 
ble light struggling in the rustic double-casement. Infallibly 
he knows that his own voluntary steps are taking him forever 
from the brilliant chandeliers of the mansion of Saddle Mead- 
ows, to join company with the wretched rush-lights of poverty 
and woe. But his sublime intuitiveness also paints to him the 
sun-like glories of god-like truth and virtue ; which though 
ever obscured by the dense fogs of earth, still shall shine'even- 
tually in unclouded radiance, casting illustrative light upon the 
sapphire throne of God. 


PIERRE. 


161 


II. 

He stands before the door ; the house is steeped in silence ; 
he knocks ; the casement light flickers for a moment, and then 
moves away ; within, he hears a door creak on its hinges ; then 
his whole heart beats wildly as the outer latch is lifted ; and 
holding the light above her supernatural head, Isabel stands 
before him. It is herself. No word is spoken ; no other soul 
is seen. They enter the room of the double casement ; and 
Pierre sits down, overpowered with bodily faintness and spirit- 
ual awe. He lifts his eyes to Isabel’s gaze of loveliness and 
loneliness ; and then a low, sweet, half-sobbing voice of more 
than natural musicalness is heard : — 

“ And so, thou art my brother ; — shall I call thee Pierre ?” 

Steadfastly, with his one first and last fraternal inquisition of 
the person of the mystic girl, Pierre now for an instant eyes 
her ; and in that one instant sees in the imploring face, not only 
the nameless touchingness of that of the sewing-girl, but also the 
subtler expression of the portrait of his then youthful father, 
strangely translated, and intermarryingly blended with some 
before unknown, foreign feminineness. In one breath, Memory 
and Prophecy, and Intuition tell him — “ Pierre, have no re- 
serves ; no minutest possible doubt ; — this being is thy sister ; 
thou gazest on thy father’s flesh.” 

“ And so thou art my brother ? — shall I call thee Pierre ?” 

He sprang to his feet, and caught her in his undoubting 
arms. 

“ Thou art ! thou art !” 

He felt a faint struggling within his clasp ; her head drooped 
against him ; his whole form was bathed in the flowing glos- 
siness of her long and unimprisoned hair. Brushing the locks 
aside, he now gazed upon the death-like beauty of the face, and 
caught immortal sadness from it. She seemed as dead; as 


152 


PIERRE. 


suffocated, — the death that leaves most unimpaired the latent 
tranquillities and sweetnesses of the human countenance. 

He would have called aloud for succor ; hut the slow eyes 
opened upon him ; and slowly he felt the girl’s supineness 
leaving her ; and now she recovers herself a little, — and again 
he feels her faintly struggling in his arms, as if somehow 
^abashed, and incredulous of mortal right to hold her so. Now 
Pierre repents his overardent and incautious warmth, and feels 
himself all reverence for her. Tenderly he leads her to a bench 
within the double casement ; and sits beside her ; and waits in 
silence, till the first shock of this encounter shall have left her 
more composed and more prepared to hold communion with 
him. ^ 

“ How feel’st thou now, my sister ?” 

“ Bless thee ! bless thee !” 

Again the sweet, wild power of the musicalness of the voice, 
and some soft, strange touch of foreignness in the accent, — so 
it fancifully seemed to Pierre, thrills through and through his 
soul. He bent and kissed her brow ; and then feels her hand 
seeking his, and then clasping it without one uttered word. 

All his being is now condensed in that one sensation of the 
clasping hand. He feels it as very small and smooth, but 
strangely hard. Then he knew that by the lonely labor of her 
hands, his own father s daughter had earned her living in the 
same world, where he himself, her own brother, had so idly 
dwelled. Once more he reverently kissed her brow, and his 
warm breath against it murmured with a prayer to heaven. 

“I have no tongue to speak to thee, Pierre, my brother. 
My whole being, all my life’s thoughts and longings are in end- 
less arrears to thee ; then how can I speak to thee ? Were it 
God’s will, Pierre, my utmost blessing now, were to lie down 
and die. Then should I be at peace. Bear with me, Pierre.” 

“ Eternally will I do that, my beloved Isabel ! Speak not to 
me yet awhile, if that seemeth best to thee, if that only is pos- 


PIEEKE. 


153 


sible to thee. This thy clasping hand, my sister, this is now 
thy tongue to me.” 

“ I know not where to begin to speak to thee, Pierre ; and 
yet my soul o’erbrims in me.” 

“ From my heart’s depths, I love and reverence thee ; and 
feel for thee, backward and forward, through all eternity !” 

“ Oh, Pierre, can’st thou not cure in me this dreaminess, 
this bewilderingness I feel ? My poor head swims and swims, 
and will not pause. My life can not last long thus ; I am too 
full without discharge. Conjure teai-s for me, Pierre ; that my 
heart may not break with the present feeling, — more death-like 
to me than all my grief gone by !” 

“Ye thirst-slaking evening skies, ye hilly dews and mists, 
distil your moisture here ! The bolt hath passed ; why comes 
not the following shower ? — Make her to weep !” 

Then her head sought his support ; and big drops fell on 
him ; and anon, Isabel gently slid her head from him, and sat 
a little composedly beside him. 

“If thou feelest in endless arrears of thought to me, my 
sister ; so do I feel toward thee. I too, scarce know what I 
should speak to thee. But when thou lookest on me, my sister, 
thou beholdest one, who in his soul hath taken vows immu- 
table, to be to thee, in all respects, and to the uttermost bounds 
and possibilities of Fate, thy protecting and all-acknowledging 
brother !” 

“ Not mere sounds of common words, but inmost tones of 
my heart’s deepest melodies should now be audible to thee. 
Thou speakest to a human thing, but something heavenly 
should answer thee ; — some flute heard in the air should answer 
thee ; for sure thy most undreamed-of accents, Pierre, sure 
they have not been unheard on high. Blessings that are 
imageless to all mortal fancyings, these shall be thine for this.” 

“ Blessing like to thine, doth but recoil and bless homeward 
to the heart that uttered it. I can not bless thee, my sister, 

G* 


154 


PIERRE. 


as thou dost bloss thyself in blessing my unworthiness. But, 
Isabel, by still keeping present the first wonder of our meeting, 
we shall make our hearts all feebleness. Let me then rehearse 
to thee what Pierre is ; what life hitherto he hath been lead- 
ing ; and what hereafter he shall lead ; — so thou wilt be pre- 
pared.” 

“ Nay, Pierre, that is my office ; thou art first entitled to my 
tale, then, if it suit thee, thou shalt make me the unentitled 
gift of thine. Listen to me, now. The invisible things will 
give me strength ; — it is not much, Pierre ; — nor aught very 
marvelous. Listen then ; — I feel soothed down to utterance 
now.” 

During some brief, interludiper. «ilont p‘juses in their inter- 
view thus far, Pierre had heard a soft, slow, sad, to-and-fro, 
meditative stepping on the floor above ; and in the frequent 
pauses that intermitted the strange story in the following chap- 
ter, that same soft, slow, sad, to-and-fro, meditative, and most 
melancholy stepping, was again and again audible in the silent 
room. 


III. 

“ I NEVER knew a moi-tal mother. The farthest stretch of 
my life’s memory can not recall one single feature of such a face. 
If, indeed, mother of mine hath lived, she is long gone, and cast 
no shadow on the ground she trod. Pierre, the lips that do now 
speak to thee, never touched a woman’s breast ; I seem not of 
woman born. My first dim life-thoughts cluster round an old, 
half-ruinous house in some region, for which I now have no chart 
to seek it out. If such a spot did ever I’eally exist, that too 
seems to have been withdrawn from all the remainder of the 
earth. It was a wild, dark house, planted in the midst of a 
round, cleared, deeply-sloping space, scooped out of the middle 


PIERRE. 


165 


of deep stunted pine woods. Ev’-er I shrunk at evening from 
peeping out of my window, lest the ghostly pines should steal 
near to me, and reach out their grim arms to snatch me into 
their horrid shadows. In summer the forest unceasingly 
hummed with unconjecturable voices of unknown birds and 
beasts. In winter its deep snows were traced like any paper 
map, with dotting night-tracks of four-footed creatures, that, 
even to the sun, were never visible, and never were seen by man 
at all. In the round open space the dark house .itood, without 
one single green twig or leaf to shelter it ; shadeless and shel- 
terless in the heart of shade and shelter. Some of the windows 
were rudely boarded up, with boards nailed straight up and 
down ; and those rooms were utterly empty, and never were 
entered, though they were doorless. But often, from the echo- 
ing corridor, I gazed into them with fear ; for the great fire- 
places were all in ruins ; the lower tier of back-stones were 
burnt into one white, common crumbling ; and the black bricks 
above had fallen upon the hearths, heaped here and there with 
the still falling soot of long-extinguished fires. Every hearth- 
stone in that house had one long crack through it ; every floor 
drooped at the corners ; and outside, the whole base of the 
house, where it rested on the low foundation of greenish stones, 
was strewn with dull, yellow molderings of the rotting sills. 
No name ; no scrawled or written thing ; no book, was in the 
house ; no one memorial speaking of its former occupants. It 
was dumb as death. No grave-stone, or mound, or any little 
hillock around the house, betrayed any past burials of man or 
child. And thus, with no trace then to me of its past history, 
thus it hath now entirely departed and perished from my slight- 
est knowledo'e as to where that house so stood, or in what re- 

o 

jrion it so stood. None other house like it have I ever seen. 
But once I saw plates of the outside of French chateaux which 
powerfully recalled its dim image to me, especially the two 
rows of small dormer windows projecting from the inverted^ 


166 


PIERRE. 


hopper-roof. But that house was of wood, and these of stone. 
Still, sometimes I think that house was not in this country, but 
somewhere in Europe ; perhaps in France ; but it is all bewil- 
dering to me ; and so you must not start at me, for I can not 
but talk wildly upon so wild a theme. 

“ In this house I never saw any living human soul, but an 
old man and woman. The old man’s face was almost black 
with age, and was one purse of wrinkles, his hoary beard al- 
ways tangled, streaked with dust and earthy crumbs. I think 
in summer he toiled a little in the garden, or some spot like 
that, which lay on one side of the house. All my ideas are in 
uncertainty and confusion here. But the old man and the old 
woman seem to have fastened themselves indelibly upon my 
memory. I suppose their being the only human thi.agr> around 
me then, that caused the hold they took upon me. They sel- 
dom spoke to me ; but would sometimes, of dark, gusty nights, 
sit by the fire and stare at me, and then mumble to each other, 
and then stare at me again. They were not entirely unkind to 
me ; but, I repeat, they seldom or never spoke to me. What 
words or language they used to each other, this it is impossible 
for me to recall. I have often wished to ; for then I might at 
least have some additional idea whether the house was in this 
country or somewhere beyond the sea. And here I ought to 
say, that sometimes I have, I know not what sort of vague re- 
membrances of at one time — shortly after the period I now 
speak of — chattering in two different childish languages ; one 
of which waned in me as the other and latter grew. But more 
of this anon. It was the woman that gave me my meals ; for 
I did not eat with them. Once they sat by the fire with a loaf 
between them, and a bottle of some thin sort of reddish wune ; 
and I went up to them, and asked to eat with them, and 
touched the loaf But instantly the old man made a motion 
as if to strike me, but did not, and the woman, glaring at me. 
snatched the loaf and threw it into the fire before them. I 


PIERRE. 


157 


ran frightened from the room ; and sought a cat, which I had 
often tried to coax into some intimacy, but, for some strange 
cause, without success. But in my frightened loneliness, then, 
I sought the cat again, and found her up-stairs, softly scratch- 
ing for some hidden thing among the litter of the abandoned 
fire-places. I called to her, for I dared not go into the haunted 
chamber ; but she only gazed sideways and unintelligently to- 
ward me ; and continued her noiseless searchings. I called 
again, and then she turned round and hissed at me ; and I ran 
down stairs, still stung with the thought of haying been driven 
away there, too. I now knew not where to go to rid myself of 
my loneliness. At last I went outside of the house, and sat down 
on a stone, but its coldness went up to my heart, and I rose 
and stood on my feet. But my head was dizzy ; I could not 
stand ; I fell, and knew no more. But next morning I found 
myself in bed in my uncheerable room, and some dark bread 
and a cup of water by me. 

“ It has only been by chance that I have told thee this one 
particular reminiscence of my early life in that house. I could 
tell many more like it, but this is enough to show what manner 
of life I led at that time. Every day that I then lived, I felt all 
visible sights and all audible sounds growing stranger and 
stranger, and fearful and move fearful to me. To me the man 
and the woman were just like the cat ; none of them would 
speak to me ; none of them were comprehensible to me. And 
the man, and the woman, and the cat, were just like the gi’een 
foundation stones of the house to me ; I knew not whence they 
came, or what cause they had for being there. I say again, 
no living human soul came to’ the house but the man and the 
woman ; but sometimes the old man early trudged away to a 
road that led through the woods, and would not come back till 
late in the evening ; he brought the dark bread, and the thin, 
reddish wine with him. Though the entrance to the wood 
was not so very far from the door, yet he came so slowly and 


158 


PIEERE. 


infirmly trudging with his little load, that it seemed weary 
hours on hours between my first descrying him among the 
trees, and his crossing the splintered threshold. 

“ Now the wide and vacant hlurrings of my early life 
thicken in my mind. All goes wholly memoryless to me 
now. It may have been that about that time I grew sick with 
some fever, in which for a long interval I lost myself. Or it 
may be true, which I have heard, that after the period of our 
very earliest recollections, then a space intervenes of entire un- 
knowingness, followed again by the first dim glimpses of the 
succeeding memory, more or less distinctly embracing all our 
past up to that one early gap in it. 

“ However this may be, nothing more can I recall of the 
house in the wide open space ; nothing of how at last I came 
to leave it ; but I must have been still extremely young then. 
But some uncertain, tossing memory have I of being at last in 
another round, open space, but immensely larger than the 
first one, and with no encircling belt of woods. Yet often it 
seems to me that there were three tall, straight things like pine- 
trees somewhere there nigh to me at times; and that they 
fearfully shook and snapt as the old trees used to in the moun- 
tain storms. And the floors seemed sometimes to droop at the 
cornel’s still more steeply than the old floors did ; and change- 
fully drooped too, so that I would even seem to feel them 
drooping under me. 

“ Now, too, it was that, as it sometimes seems to me, I first 
and last chattered in the two childish languages I spoke of a 
little time ago. There seemed people about me, some of 
whom talked one, and some the other ; but I talked both ; yet 
one not so readily as the other ; and but beginningly as it 
were ; still this other was the one which was gradually displac- 
ing the former. The men who — as it sometimes dreamily 
seems to me at times — often climbed 'the three strange tree- 
like things, they talked — I needs must think — if indeed I have 


PIERRE. 


159 


any real thought about so bodiless a phantom as this is — they 
talked the language which I speak of as at this time gradually 
waning in me. It was a bonny tongue ; oh, seems to me so 
sparkling-gay and lightsome ; just the tongue for a child like 
me, if the child had not been so sad always. It was pure 
children’s language, Pierre ; so twittering — such a chirp. 

“ In thy own mind, thou must now perceive, that most of these 
dim remembrances in me, hint vaguely of a ship at sea. But 
all is dim and vague to me. Scarce knutv I at any time 
whether I tell you real things, or the unrealest dreams. Al- 
ways in me, the solidest things melt into dreavns, and dreams 
into solidities. Never have I wholly recovered from the etfects 
of my strange early life. This it is, that even now — this mo- 
ment — surrounds thy visible form, my brother, with a myste- 
rious mistiness ; so that a second face, and a third face, and a 
fourth face peep at me from within thy own. Now dim, and 
more dim, grows in me all the memory of how thou and I did 
come to meet. I go groping again amid all sorts of shapes, 
which part to me; so that I seem to advance through the 
shapes ; and yet the shapes have eyes that look at me. I turn 
round, and they look at me ; I step forward, and they look at 
me. — ^Let me be silent now ; do not speak to me.” 


lY. 

Filled with nameless wonderings at this strange being, Pierre 
sat mute, intensely regarding her half-averted aspect. Her im- 
mense soft tresses of the jettiest hair had slantingly fallen over 
her as though a curtain were half drawn from before some saint 
enshrined. To Pierre, she seemed half unearthly; but this 
unearthliness was only her mysteriousness, not any thing that 
was repelling or menacing to him. And still, the low melodies 


160 


PIEERE. 


of her far interior voice hovered in sweet echoes in the room ; 
and were trodden upon, and pressed hke gushing grapes, by 
the steady invisible pacing on the floor above. 

She moved a little now, and after some strange wanderings 
more coherently continued. 

“ My next memory which I think I can in some degree rely 
upon, was yet another house, also situated away from human 
haunts, in the heart of a not entirely silent country. Through 
this country, and* by the house, wound a green and lagging 
river. That house must have been in some lowland ; for the 
first house I spoke of seems to me to have been somewhere 
among mountains, or near to mountains ; — the sounds of the 
far waterfalls, — I seem to hear them now ; liie steady up-point- 
ed cloud-shapes behind the house in the sunset sky — I seem to 
see them now. But this other house, this second one, or third 
one, I know not which, I say again it was in some lowland. 
There were no pines around it ; few trees of any sort ; the 
ground did not slope so steeply as around the first house. 
There were cultivated fields about it, and in the distance farm- 
houses and out-houses, and cattle, and fowls, and many objects 
of that familiar sort. This house I am persuaded was in this 
country ; on this side of the sea. It was a very lai-ge house, 
and full of people; but for the most part they lived sepa- 
rately. There were some old people in it, and there were young 
men, and young women in it, — some very handsome ; and 
there were children in it. It seemed a happy place to some of 
these people ; many of them were always laughing ; but it was 
not a happy place for me. 

“ But here I may err, because of my own consciousness I 
can not identify in myself— I mean in the memory of my 
whole foregoing life, — I say, I can not identify that thing which 
is called happiness ; that thing whose token is a laugh, or a 
smile, or a silent serenity on the lip. I may have been happy, 
but it is not in ray conscious memory now. Nor do I feel a 


PIERRE. 


161 . 


longing for it, as though I had never had it ; my spirit seeks 
different food from happiness ; for I think I have a suspicion of 
what it is. I have suffered wretchedness, but not because of 
the absence of happiness, and without praying for happiness. I 
pray for peace — ^for motionlessness — ^for the feeling of myself, as 
of some plant, absorbing life without seeking it, and existing 
without individual sensation. I feel that there can be no per- 
fect peace in individualness. Therefore I hope one day to feel 
myself drank up into the pervading spirit animating all things. 
I feel I am an exile here. I still go straying. — Yes ; in thy 
speech, thou smilest. — But let me be silent -^gain. Do not 
answer me. When I resume, I will not under so, but make 
short end.” 

Reverently resolved not to offer the slightest let or hinting 
hindrance to the singular tale rehearsing to him, but to sit 
passively and receive its marvelous droppings into his soul, 
however long the pauses ; and as touching less mystical consid- 
erations, persuaded that by so doing he should ultimately de- 
rive the least nebulous and imperfect account of Isabel’s his- 
tory ; Pierre still sat waiting her resuming, his eyes fixed upon 
the girl’s wonderfully beautiful ear, which chancing to peep 
forth from among her abundant tresses, nestled in that black- 
ness like a transparent sea-shell of pearl. 

She moved a httle now ; and after some strange wanderings 
more coherently continued ; while the sound of the stepping 
on the floor above — ^it seemed to cease. 

“ I have spoken of the second or rather the third spot in my 
memory of the past, as it first appeared to me ; I mean, I have 
spoken of the people in the house, according to my very earliest 
recallable impression of them. * But I stayed in that house for 
several years — five, six, perhaps, seven years — and during that 
interval of my stay, all things changed to me, because I learned 
more, though always dimly. Some of its occupants departed ; 
some changed from smiles to tears ; some went moping all the 


162 


PIERRE. 


day ; some grew as savages and outrageous, and were dragged 
below by dumb-like men into deep places, that I knew nothing 
of, but dismal sounds came through the lower floor, groans 
and clanking fallings, as of iron in straw. Now and then, I 
saw coffins silently at noon-day can-ied into the house, and in 
five minutes’ time emerge again, seemingly heavier than they 
entered ; but I saw not who was in them. Once, I saw an 
immense-sized coffin, endwise pushed through a lower window 
by three men who did not speak ; and watching, I saw it 
pushed out again, and they drove off with it. But the num- 
bers of those invisible persons who thus departed from the 
house, were made good by other invisible ponsons arriving in 
close carriages. Some in rags and tatters came on foot, or 
rather were driven on foot. Once I hoard horrible outcries, 
and peeping from my window, saw a robust but squalid and 
distorted man, seemingly a peasant, tied by cords with four 
long ends to them, held behind by as many ignorant-looking 
men who with a lash drove the wild squalid being that way 
toward the house. Then I heard answering hand-clappings, 
shrieks, howls, laughter, blessings, prayers, oaths, hymns, and all 
audible confusions issuing from all the chambers of the house. 

“ Sometimes there entered the house — though only transient- 
ly, departing within the hour they came — people of a then re- 
markable aspect to me. They were very composed of coun- 
tenance ; did not laugh ; did not groan ; did not weep ; did 
not make strange faces ; did not look endlessly fatigued ; were 
not strangely and fantastically dressed ; in short, did not at 
all resemble any people I had ever seen before, except a little 
like some few of the persons of the house, who seemed to 
have authority over the rest. These people of a remarkable 
aspect to me, I thought they were strangely demented people ; 
— composed of countenance, but wandering of mind; soul- 
lomposed and bodily-wandering, and strangely demented 
people. 


PI EERE. 


168 


“ By-and-by, the house seemed to change again, or else my 
mind took in more, and modified its first impressions. I was 
lodged up-stairs in a little room ; there was hardly any fur- 
niture in the room ; sometimes I wished to go out of it ; but 
the door was locked. Sometimes the people came and took 
me out of the room, into a much larger and very long room, 
and here I would collectively see many of the other people of 
the house, who seemed likewise brought from distant and sepa- 
rate chambers. In this long room they would vacantly roam 
about, and talk vacant talk to each other. Some would stand 
in the middle of the room gazing steadily on the floor for 
hours together, and never stirred, but July breathed and gazed 
upon the floor. Some would sit crouching in the corner, and 
sit crouching there, and only breathe and crouch in the cor- 
ners. Some kept their hands tight on their hearts, and went 
slowly promenading up and down, moaning and moaning to 
themselves. One would say to another — “Feel of it — here, 
put thy hand in the break.” Another would mutter — “ Broken, 
broken, broken” — and would mutter nothing but that one word 
broken. But most of them were dumb, and could not, or 
would not speak, or had forgotten how to speak. They were 
nearly all pale people. Some had hair white as snow, and 
yet were quite young people. Some were always talking 
about Hell, Eternity, and God; and some of all things as 
fixedly decreed ; others would say nay to this, and then they 
would argue, but without much conviction either way. But 
once nearly all the people present — even the dumb moping 
people, and the sluggish persons crouching in the corners-— 
nearly all of them laughed once, when after a whole day’s 
loud babbling, two of these predestinarian opponents, said each 
to the other — ‘ Thou hast convinced me, friend ; but we are 
quits ; for so also, have I convinced thee, the other way ; now 
then, let’s ^ argue it all over again ; for still, though mutually 
converted, we are still at odds.’ Some harangued the wall ; 


164 


P I E RRE. 


some apostrophized the air; some hissed at the air; some 
lolled their tongues out at the air; some struck the air; some 
made motions, as if wrestling with the air, and fell out of the 
arms of the air, panting from the invisible hug. 

“ Now, as in the former thing, thou must, ere this, have sus- 
pected what manner of place this second or third house was, 
that I then lived in. But do not speak the word to me. That 
word has never passed my lips ; even now, when I hear the 
word, I run from it ; when I see it printed in a book, I run 
from the book. The word is wholly unendurable to me. Who 
brought me to the house ; how I came there, I do not know. I 
lived a long time in the house ; that alone I know ; I say I 
know, but still I am uncertain ; still Pierre, s^ill the — oh the 
dreaminess, the bewilderingness — it never entirely leaves me. 
Let me be still again.” 

She leaned away from him ; she put her small hard hand to 
her forehead ; then moved it down, very slowly, but still hardly 
over her eyes, and kept it there, making no other sign, and 
still as death. Then she moved and continued her vague tale 
of terribleness. 

“ I must be shorter ; I did not mean to turn off into the mere 
offshootings of my story, here and there ; but the dreaminess I 
speak of leads me sometimes ; and I, as impotent then, obey 
the dreamy prompting. Bear with me ; now I will be briefer.” 

“ It came to pass, at last, that there was a contention about 
me in the house ; some contention which I heard in the after 
rumor only, not at the actual time. Some strangers had ar- 
rived ; or had come in haste, being sent for to the house. Next 
day they dressed me in new and pretty, but still plain clothes, 
and they took me down stairs, and out into the air, and into a 
carriage with a pleasant-looking woman, a stranger to me ; and 
I was driven off a good way, two days nearly we drove away, 
stopping somewhere over-night ; and on the evening of the 


PIERRE. 


165 


second day we came to another house, and went into it, and 
stayed there. 

“ This house was a much smaller one than the other, and 
seemed sweetly quiet to me after that. There was a beautiful 
infant in it ; and this beautiful infant always archly and inno- 
cently smiling on me, and strangely beckoning me to come and 
play with it, and be glad with it ; and be thoughtless, and be 
glad and gleeful with it ; this beautiful infant first brought me 
to my own mind, as it were ; first made me sensible that I was 
something different from stones, trees, cats ; first undid in me 
the fancy that all people were as stones, trees, cats ; first filled 
me with the sweet idea of humanness ; first made me aware of 
the infinite mercifulness, and tenderness, and beautifulness of 
humanness ; and this beautiful infant first filled me with the 
dim thought of Beauty; and equally, and at the same time, 
with the feeling of the Sadness ; of the immortalness and uni- 
versalness of the Sadness. I now feel that I should soon have 

gone, stop me now ; do not let me go that way. I 

owe all things to that beautiful infant. Oh, how I envied it, 
lying in its happy mother’s breast, and drawing life and glad- 
ness, and all its perpetual smilingness from that white and 
smiling breast. That infant saved me ; but still gave me vague 
desirings. Now I first began to reflect in my mind ; to en- 
deavor after the recalling past things ; but try as I would, little 
could I recall, but the bewilderingness and the stupor, and 
the torpor, and the blankness, and the dimness, and the vacant 
whirlingness of the bewilderingness. Let me be still again.” 

And the stepping on the floor above,— it then resumed. 


166 


P I E K B E . 


Y. 

“ I MUST have been nine, or ten, or eleven years old, when 
the pleasant-looking woman carried me away from the large 
house. She was a farmer’s wife ; and now that was my resi- 
dence, the farm-house. They taught me to sew, and work 
with wool, and spin the wool ; I was nearly always busy now. 
This being busy, too, this it must have been, which partly 
brought to me the power of being sensible of myself as some- 
thing human. Now I began to feel strange differences. When 
I saw a snake trailing through the grass, and darting out the 
fire-fork from its mouth, I said to myself. That thing is not hu- 
man, but I am human. When the lightning flashed, and split 
some beautiful tree, and left it to rot from all its greenness, I 
said. That lightning is not human, but I am human. And so 
with all other things. I can not speak coherently here ; but 
somehow I felt that all good, harmless men and women werfl 
human things, placed at cross-purposes, in a world of snakes 
and lightnings, in a world of horrible and inscrutable inhuman- 
ities. I have had no training of any sort. All my thoughts 
well up in me ; I know not whether they pertain to the old 
bewilderings or not ; but as they are, they are, and I can not 
alter them, for I had nothing to do with putting them in my 
mind, and I never aftect any thoughts, and I never adulterate 
any thoughts ; but when I speak, think forth from the tongue, 
speech being sometimes before the thought ; so, often, my own 
tongue teaches me new things. 

“ Now as yet I never had questioned the woman, or her hus- 
band, or the young girls, their children, why I had been 
brought to the house, or how long I was to stay in the house. 
There I was ; just as I found myself in the world ; there I was ; 
for what cause I had been brought into the world, would have 
been no stranger question to me, than for what cause I had 


PIERRE. 


167 


been brought to the house. I knew nothing of myself, or any 
thing pertaining to myself ; I felt my pulse, my thought ; but 
other things I was ignorant of, except the general feeling of my 
humanness among the inhumanities. But as I grew older, I 
expanded in my mind. I began to learn things out of me ; to 
see still stranger, and minuter differences. I called the woman 
mother, and so did the other girls ; yet the woman often kissed 
them, but seldom me. She always helped them first at table. 
The farmer scarcely ever spoke to me. Now months, years 
rolled on, and the young girls began to stare at me. Then the 
bewilderingness of the old starings of the solitary old man and 
old woman, by the cracked hearth-stone of the desolate old 
house, in the desolate, round, open space ; the bewilderingness 
of those old starings now returned to me ; and the green star- 
ings, and the serpent hissings of the uncompanionable cat, re- 
curred to me, and the feeling of the infinite forlornness of my 
life rolled over me. But the woman was very kind to me ; 
she taught the girls not to be cruel to me ; she would call me 
to her, and speak cheerfully to me, and I thanked — not God, 
for I had been taught no God — I thanked the bright human 
summer, and the joyful human sun in the sky ; I thanked the 
human summer the sun, that they had given me the 
woman ; and I would sometimes steal away into the beautiful 
grass, and worship the kind summer and the sun ; and often 
say over to myself the soft words, summer and the sun. 

“ Still, weeks and years ran on, and my hah began to vail 
me with its fullness and its length ; and now often I heard the 
word beautiful, spoken of my hair, and beautiful, spoken of my- 
self. They would not say the word openly to me, but I would 
by chance overhear them whispering it. The word joyed me 
with the human feeling of it. They were wrong not to say it 
openly to me ; my joy would have been so much the more as- 
sured for the openness of their saying beautiful, to me ; and I 
know it would have filled me with all conceivable kindness 


168 


PIERRE. 


toward every one. Now I had heard the word beautiful, whis- 
pered, now and then, for some months, when a new being 
came to the house ; they called him gentleman. His face was 
wonderful to me. Something strangely like it, and yet again 
unlike it, I had seen before, but where, I could not tell. But 
one day, looking into the smooth water behind the house, there 
I saw the likeness — something strangely like, and yet unlike, 
the likeness of his face. This filled me with puzzlings. The 
new being, the gentleman, he was very gracious to me ; he 
seemed astonished, confounded at me ; he looked at me, then 
at a very little, round picture — so it seemed — which he took 
from his pocket, and yet concealed from me. Then he kissed 
me, and looked with tenderness and grief upon me ; and I felt 
a tear fall on me from him. Then he whispered a word into 
my ear. ‘ Father,’ was the word he whispered ; the same 
word by which the young girls called the farmer. Then I 
knew it was the word of kindness and of kisses. I kissed the 
gentleman. 

“ When he left the house I wept for him to come again. 
And he did come again. All called him my father now. He 
came to see me once every month or two ; till at last he came 
not at all ; and when I wept and asked for him, they said the 
word Dead to me. Then the bewilderings of the comings 
and the goings of the coffins at the large and populous house ; 
these bewilderings came over me. What was it to be dead ? 
What is it to be living ? Wherein is the difference between 
the words Death and Life ? Had I been ever dead? Was I 
living ? Let me be still again. Do not speak to me.” 

And the stepping on the floor above ; again it did resume. 

“Months ran on; and now I somehow learned that my 
father had every now and then sent money to the woman to 
keep me with her in the house ; and that no more money had 
come to her after he was dead ; the last penny of the former 
money was now gone. Now the farmer’s wife looked trou- 


PIERRE. 


169 


bledly and painfully at me ; and tlie farmer looked unpleasantly 
and impatiently at me. I felt that something was miserably 
wrong ; I said to myself, I am one too many ; I must go away 
from the pleasant house. Then the bewilderings of all the loneli- 
ness and forlornness of all my forlorn and lonely life ; all these 
bewilderings and the whelmings of the bewilderings rolled over 
me ; and I sat down without the house, but could not weep. 

“ But I was strong, and I was a grown girl now. I said to 
the woman — Keep me hard at work ; let me work all the time, 
but let me stay with thee. But the other girls were sufficient 
to do the work ; me they wanted not. The farmer looked out 
of his eyes at me, and the out-lookings of his eyes said plainly 
to me — Thee we do not want ; go from us ; thou art one too 
many ; and thou art more than one too many. Then I said 
to the woman — Hire me out to some one ; let me work for 
some one. — But I spread too wide my little story. I must 
make an end. 

“ The woman listened to me, and through her means I went 
to live at another house, and earned wages there. My work 
was milking the cows, and making butter, and spinning wool, 
and weaving carpets of thin strips of cloth. One day there 
came to this house a pedler. In his wagon he had a guitar, 
an old guitar, yet a very pretty one, but with broken strings. 
He had got it slyly in part exchange from the servants of a 
grand house some distance off. Spite of the broken strings, 
the thing looked very graceful and beautiful to me; and I 
knew there was melodiousness lurking in the thing, though I 
had never seen a guitar before, nor heard of one ; but there 
was a strange humming in my heart that seemed to prophesy 
of the hummings of the guitar. Intuitively, I knew that the 
strings were not as they should be. I said to the man I will 
T)uy of thee the thing thou callest a guitar. But thou must 
put new strings to it. So he went to search for them ; 
and brought the strings, and restringing the guitai-, tuned it 

H 


170 


PI ERKE. 


for me. So with part of my earnings I bought the guitar 
Straightway I took it to my little chamber in the gable, and 
softly laid it on my bed. Then I murmured ; sung and mur- 
mured to it ; very lowly, very softly ; I could hardly hear my- 
self. And I changed the modulations of my singings and mj 
murmurings ; and still sung, and murmured, lowly, softly, — 
more and more ; and presently I heard a sudden sound : sweet 
and low beyond all telhng was the sweet and sudden sound. 
I clapt my hands ; the guitar was speaking to me ; the dear 
guitar was singing to me ; murmuring and singing to me, the 
guitar. Then I sung and murmured to it with a still difterent 
modulation ; and once more it answered me from a different 
string ; and once more it murmured to me, and it answered to 
me with a different string. The guitar was human ; the guitar 
taught me the secret of the guitar ; the guitar learned me to 
play on the guitar. No music-master have I ever had but the 
guitar. I made a loving friend of it ; a heart friend of it. It 
sings to me as I to it. Love is not all on one side with my 
guitar. All the wonders that are unimaginable and unspeak- 
able ; all these wonders are translated in the mysterious melo- 
diousness of the guitar. It knows all my past history. Some- 
times it plays to me the mystic visions of the confused large 
house I never name. Sometimes it brings to me the bird-twit- 
terings in the air 5 and sometimes it strikes up in me rapturous 
pulsations of legendary delights eternally unexperienced and 
unknown to me. Bring me the guitar.” 


P I E RKE. 


171 


YI. 

Entranced, lost, as one wandering bedazzled and amazed 
among innumerable dancing lights, Pierre had motionlessly- 
listened to this abundant-haired, and large-eyed girl of mystery. 

“ Bring me the guitar !” 

Starting from his enchantment, Pierre gazed round the room, 
and saw the instrument leaning against a corner. Silently he 
brought it to the girl, and silently sat down again. 

“ Now listen to the guitar ; and the guitar shall sing to thee 
the sequel of my story ; for not in words can it be spoken. So 
listen to the guitar.” 

Instantly the room was populous with sounds of melodious- 
ness, and moumfulness, and wonderfulness ; the room swarmed 
with the unintelligible but delicious sounds. The sounds 
seemed waltzing in the room ; the sounds hung pendulous like 
glittering icicles from the cornel’s of the room ; and fell upon 
him with a ringing silveryness ; and were drawn up again to 
the ceiling, and hung pendulous again, and dropt down upon 
him again with the ringing silvei’yness. Fire-flies seemed buz- 
zing in the sounds; summer-lightnings seemed vividly yet 
softly audible in the sounds. 

And still the wild girl played on the guitar ; and her long 
dark shower of curls fell over it, and vailed it ; and still, out 
from the vail came the swarming sweetness, and the utter un- 
intelligibleness, but the infinite significancies of the sounds of 
the guitar. 

“ Girl of all-bewildering mystery !” cried Pierre— “ Speak to 
me • — sister, if thou indeed canst be a thing that’s mortal — 
speak to me, if thou be Isabel !” 

' “ Mystery ! Mystery I 

Mystery of Isabel ! 

Mystery! Mystery! 

Isabel and Mystery I” 


172 


PIERRE. 


Among the waltzings, and the droppings, and the swarmings 
of the sounds, Pierre now he^rd the tones above deftly stealing 
and winding among the myriad serpentinings of the other mel- 
ody : — deftly stealing and winding as respected the instrumental 
sounds, but in themselves wonderfully and abandonedly free 
and bold — ^bounding and rebounding as from multitudinous 
reciprocal walls ; while with every syllable the hair-shrouded 
form of Isabel swayed to and fro with a like abandonment, and 
suddenness, and wantonness : — then it seemed not like any 
song ; seemed not issuing from any mouth ; but it came forth 
from beneath the same vail concealing the guitar. 

Now a strange wild heat burned upon his brow ; he put his 
hand to it. Instantly the music changed; and drooped and 
changed ; and changed and changed ; and lingeringly retreated 
as it changed ; and at last was wholly gone. 

Pierre was the first to break the silence. 

“ Isabel, thou hast filled me with such wonderings ; I am so 
distraught with thee, that the particular things I had to tell to 
thee, when I hither came ; these things I can not now recall, to 
speak them to thee : — I feel that something is still unsaid by 
thee, which at some other time thou wilt reveal. But now I 
can stay no longer with thee. Know me eternally as thy lov- 
ing, revering, and most marveling brother, who will never de- 
sert thee, Isabel. Now let me kiss thee and depart, till to-mor- 
row night ; when I shall open to thee all my mind, and all my 
plans concerning me and thee. Let me kiss thee, and adieu !” 

As full of unquestioning and unfaltering faith in him, the 
girl sat motionless and heard him out. Then silently rose, and 
turned her boundlessly confiding brow to him. He kissed it 
thrice, and without another syllable left the place. 


BOOK vn. 


i 


INTERMEDIATE BETWEEN PIERRE’S TWO INTERVIEWS 
WITH ISABEL AT THE FARM-HOUSE. 


I. 

Not immediately, not for a long time, could Pierre fully, or 
by any approximation, realize the scene which he had just de- 
parted. But the vague revelation was now in him, that the 
visible world, some of which before had seemed but too com- 
mon and prosaic to him ; and but too intelligible ; he now 
vaguely felt, that all the world, and every misconceivedly com- 
mon and prosaic thing in it, was steeped a million fathoms in a 
mysteriousness wholly hopeless of solution. Fii-st, the enig- 
matical story of the girl, and the profound sincerity of it, and 
yet the ever accompanying haziness, obscurity, and almost 
miraculousness of it ; — first, this wonderful stoiy of the girl had 
displaced all commonness and prosaicness from his soul ; and 
then, the inexplicable spell of the guitar, and the subtleness of 
the melodious appealings of the few brief words from Isabel 
sung in the conclusion of the melody — all this had bewitched 
him, and enchanted him, till he had sat motionless and bending 
over, as a tree-Uansformed and mystery-laden visitant, caught 
and fast bound in some necromancer’s garden. 

But as now burst from these sorceries, he hurried along the 
open road, he strove for the time to dispel the mystic feeling, or ^ 
at least postpone it for a while, until he should have time to 


174 


PI EREE. 


rally both body and soul from the more immediate conse- 
quences of that day’s long fastings and wanderings, and that 
night’s never-to-be-forgotten scene. He now endeavored to beat 
away all thoughts from him, but of present bodily needs. 

Passing through the silent village, he heard the clock tell the 
mid hour of night. Hurrying on, he entered the mansion by a 
private door, the key of which hung in a secret outer place. 
Without undressing, he flung himself upon the bed. But re- 
membering himself again, he rose and adjusted his alarm-clock, 
so that it would emphatically repeat the hour of five. Then to 
bed again, and driving off all intrudings of thoughtfulness, and 
resolutely bending himself to slumber, he by-and-by fell into its 
at first reluctant, but at last welcoming and hospitable arms. 
At five he rose ; and in the east saw the first spears of the 
advanced-guard of the day. 

It had been his purpose to go forth at that early hour, and 
so avoid all casual contact with any inmate of the mansion, and 
spend the entire day in a second wandering in the woods, as 
the only fit prelude to the societyof so wild a being as his new- 
found sister Isabel. But the familiar home-sights of his cham- 
ber strangely worked upon him. For an instant, he almost 
could have prayed Isabel back into the wonder-world from 
which she had so slidingly emerged. For an instant, the fond, 
all-understood blue eyes of Lucy displaced the as tender, but 
mournful and inscrutable dark glance of Isabel. He seemed 
placed between them, to choose one or the other ; then both 
seemed his ; but into Lucy’s eyes there stole half of the mourn- 
fulness of Isabel’s, without diminishing hers. 

Again the faintness, and the long life-weariness benumbed 
him. He left the mansion, and put his bare forehead against 
the restoring wind. He re-entered the mansion, and adjusted 
the clock to repeat emphatically the call of seven ; and then 
..lay upon his bed. But now he could not sleep. At seven he 
changed his dress ; and at half-past eight went below to meet 


PIERRE. 


175 


his mother at the breakfast table, having a little before over- 
heard her step upon the stair. 


n. 

He saluted her ; but she looked gravely and yet alarmedly, 
and then in a sudden, illy-repressed panic, upon him. Then he 
knew he must be wonderfully changed. But his mother spoke 
not to him, only to return his good-morning. He saw that she 
was deeply offended with him, on many accounts ; moreover, 
that she was vaguely frightened about him, and finally that not- 
withstanding all this, her stung pride conquered all apprehensive- 
ness in her ; and he knew his mother well enough to be very 
certain that, though he should unroll a magician’s parchment 
before her now, she would verbally express no interest, and seek 
no explanation from him. Nevertheless, he could not entirely 
abstain from testing the power of her reservedness. 

“ I have been quite an absentee, sister Mary,” said he, with 
ill-affected pleasantness. 

“ Yes, Pierre. How does the coffee suit you this morning ? 
It is some new coffee.” 

“ It is very nice ; very rich and odorous, sister Mary.” 

“ I am glad you find it so, Pierre.” 

“ Why don’t you call me brother Pierre ?” 

“ Have I not called you so ? Well, then, brother Pierre, — ^is 
that better ?” 

“ Why do you look so indifferently and icily upon me, sister 
Mary ?” 

“ Do I look indifferently and icily ? Then I will endeavor to 
look otherwise. Give me the toast there, Pierre.” 

“ You are very deeply offended at me, my dear mother.” 


176 


PIERRE. 


“ Not in the slightest degree, Pierre. Have you seen Lucy 
lately ?” 

“ I have not, my mother.” 

“ Ah ! A hit of salmon, Pierre.” 

“ You are too proud to show toward me what you are this 
moment feehng, my mother.” 

Mrs. Glendinning slowly rose to her feet, and her full stature 
of womanly beauty and majesty stood imposingly over him. 

“ Tempt me no more, Pierre. I will ask no secret from thee ; 
all shall be voluntary between us, as it ever has been, until very 
lately, or all shall be nothing between us. Beware of me, 
Pierre. There lives not that being in the world of whom thou 
hast more reason to beware, so you continue but a little longer 
to act thus with me.” 

She reseated herself, and spoke no more. Pierre kept silence ; 
and after snatching a few mouthfuls of he knew not what, silent- 
ly quitted the table, and the room, and the mansion. 


III. 

As the door of the breakfast-room closed upon Pierre, Mi’s. 
Glendinning rose, her fork unconsciously retained in her hand. 
Presently, as she paced the room in deep, rapid thought, she 
became conscious of something strange in her grasp, and with- 
out looking at it, to mark what it was, impulsively flung it 
from her. A dashing noise was heard, and then a quivering. 
She turned ; and hanging by the side of Pierre’s portrait, she 
saw her own smiling picture pierced through, and the fork, 
whose silver tines had caught in the painted bosom, vibratingly 
rankled in the wound. 

She advanced swiftly to the picture, and stood intrepidly be 
fore it. 


PIERKE. 


177 


“ Yes, thou art stabbed ! but the wrong hand stabbed thee ; 
this should have been thy silver blow,” turning to Pierrots por- 
trait face. “ Pierre, Pien*e, thou hast stabbed me with a poi- 
soned point. I feel my blood chemically changing in me. I, 
the mother of the only surnamed Glendinning, I feel now as 
though I had borne the last of a swiftly to be extinguished race. 
For swiftly to be extinguished is that race, whose only heir but 
so much as impends upon a deed of shame. And some deed 
of shame, or something most dubious and most dark, is in thy 
soul, or else some belying specter, with a cloudy, shame-faced 
front, sat at yon seat but now ! What can it be ? Pien-e, un- 
bosom. Smile not so lightly upon my heavy grief. Answer ; 
what is it, boy ? Can it ? can it ? no — ^yes — surely — can it ? 
it can not be ! But he was not at Lucy’s yesterday ; nor was 
she here ; and she would not see me when I called. What 
can this bode? But not a mere broken match — broken as 
lovers sometimes break, to mend the break with joyful teai-s, 
so soon again — not a mere broken match can break my proud 
heart so. If that indeed be part, it is not all. But no, no, no ; 
it can not, can not be. He would not, could not, do so mad, 
so impious a thing. It was a most surprising face, though I 
confessed it not to him, nor even hinted that I saw it. But no, 
no, no, it can not be. Such young peerlessness in such hum- 
bleness, can not have an honest origin. Lilies are not stalked 
on weeds, though polluted, they sometimes may stand among 
them. She must be both poor and vile — some chance-blow of 
a splendid, worthless rake, doomed to inherit both parts of her 
infecting portion — vileness and beauty. Ho, I will not think it 
of him. But what then ? Sometimes I have feared that my 
pride would work me some woe incurable, by closing both my 
lips, and varnishing all my front, where I perhaps ought to be 
wholly in the melted and invoking mood. But who can get 
at one’s own heart, to mend it ? Right one’s self against an- 
other, that, one may sometimes do ; but when that other is 

H* 


178 


PIERRE. 


one’s own self, these ribs forbid. Then I will live my nature 
out. I will stand on pride. I will not budge. Let come 
what will, I shall not half-way run to meet it, to beat it off. 
Shall a mother abase herself before her stripling boy ? Let 
him tell me of himself, or let him shde adown I” 


lY. 

Pierre plunged deep into the woods, and paused not for 
several miles ; paused not till he came to a remarkable stone, or 
rather, smoothed mass of rock, huge as a barn, which, wholly 
isolated horizontally, was yet sweepingly overarched by beech- 
trees and chestnuts. 

It was shaped something like a lengthened egg, but flattened 
more ; and, at the ends, pointed more ; and yet not pointed, 
but irregularly wedge-shaped. Somewhere near the middle 
of its under side, there was a lateral ridge ; and an obscure 
point of this ridge rested on a second lengthwise-sharpened rock, 
slightly proti’uding from the ground. Beside that one obscure 
and minute point of contact, the whole enormous and most 
ponderous mass touched not another object in the wide ter- 
raqueous world. It was a breathless thing to see. One broad 
haunched end hovered within an inch of the soil, all along to 
the point of teetering contact ; but yet touched not the soil. 
Many feet from that — beneath one part of the opposite end, 
which w^as all seamed and half-riven — the vacancy was con- 
siderably larger, so as to make it not only possible, but con- 
venient to admit a crawling man ; yet no mortal being had 
ever been known to have the intrepid heart to crawl there. 

It might well have ,been the wonder of all the country 
round. But strange to tell, though hundreds of cottage 
hearthstones — where, of long winter-evenings, both old men 


PIERRE. 


179 


smoked their pipes and young men shelled their corn — sur- 
rounded it, at no very remote distance, yet had the youthful 
Pierre been the first known publishing discoverer of this stone, 
which he had thereupon fancifully christened the Memnon 
Stone. Possibly, the reason why this singular object had so 
long remained unblazoned to the world, was not so much be- 
cause it had never before been lighted on — though indeed, 
both belted and topped by the dense deep luxuriance of the 
aboriginal forest, it lay like Captain Kidd’s sunken hull in the 
gorge of the river Hudson’s Highlands, — ^its crown being full 
eight fathoms under high-foliage mark during the great spring- 
tide of foliage ; — and besides this, the cottagers had no special 
motive for visiting its more immediate vicinity at all; their 
timber and fuel being obtained from more accessible woodlands 
— as because, even, if any of the simple people should have 
-chanced to have beheld it, they, in their hoodwinked unappre- 
ciativeness, would not have accounted it any very marvelous 
sight, and therefore, would never have thought it worth their 
while to publish it abroad. So that iii real truth, they might 
have seen it, and yet afterward have forgotten so inconsider- 
able a circumstance. In short, this wondrous Memnon Stone 
could be no Memnon Stone to them ; nothing but a huge 
stumbling-block, deeply to be regretted as a vast prospective 
obstacle in the way of running a handy little cross-road 
through that wild part of the Manor. 

Kow one day while reclining near its flank, and intently 
eying it, and thinking how surprising it was, that in so long- 
settled a country he should have been the first discerning and 
appreciative person to light upon such a great natural cu- 
riosity, Pierre happened to brush aside several successive layers 
of old, gray-haired, close cropped, nappy moss, and beneath, to 
his no small amazement, he saw rudely hammered in the rock 
some half-obliterate initials— “ S. y* W.” Then he knew, that 
ignorant of the stone, as all the simple country round might 


180 


PIERRE. 


immemorially have been, yet was not himself the only human 
being who had discovered that marvelous impending spectacle : 
but long and long ago, in quite another age, the stone had 
been beheld, and its wonderfulness fully appreciated — as the 
painstaking initials seemed to testify — by some departed man, 
who, were he now alive, might possibly wag a beard old as the 
most venerable oak of centuries’ growth. But who, — who in 
Methuselah’s name, — who might have been this “ S. y® W ?” 
Pierre pondered long, but could not possibly imagine ; for the 
initials, in their antiqueness, seemed to point to some period be- 
fore the era of Columbus’ discovery of the hemisphere. Hap- 
pening in the end to mention the strange matter of these initials 
to a white-haired old gentleman, his city kinsman, who, after a 
long and richly varied, but unfortunate life, had at last found 
great solace in the Old Testament, which he was continually 
studying with ever-increasing admiration ; this white-haired old 
kinsman, after having learnt all the particulars about the stone 
— its bulk, its height, the precise angle of its critical impen- 
dings, and all that, — and then, after much prolonged cogitation 
upon it, and several long-drawn sighs, and aged looks of hoar 
significance, and reading certain verses in Ecclesiastes ; after all 
these tedious preliminaries, this not-at-all-to-be-hurried white- 
haired old kinsman, had laid his tremulous hand upon Pierre’s 
firm young shoulder, and slowly whispered — “ Boy ; ’tis Solo- 
mon the Wise.” Pierre could not repress a merry laugh at 
this ; wonderfully diverted by what seemed to him s-o queer 
and crotchety a conceit; which he imputed to the alledged 
dotage of his venerable kinsman, who he well knew had once 
maintained, that the old Scriptural Ophir was somewhere on 
our northern sea-coast ; so no wonder the old gentleman should 
fancy that King Solomon might have taken a trip — as a sort 
of amateur supercargo — of some Tyre or Sidon gold-ship across 
the water, and happened to light on the Mem non Stone, while 
rambling about with bow and quiver shooting partridges. 


P I E RK E. 


181 


But merriment was by no means Pierre’s usual mood when 
thinking of this stone ; much less when seated in the woods, 
he, in the profound significance of that deep forest silence, 
viewed its marvelous impendings. A flitting conceit had often 
crossed him, that he would like nothing better for a head-stone 
than this same imposing pile ; in which, at times, during the 
soft swayings of the surrounding foliage, there seemed to lurk 
some' mournful and lamenting plaint, as for some sweet boy 
long since departed in the antediluvian time. 

Not only might this stone well have been the wonder of the 
simple country round, but it might well have been its terror. 
Sometimes, wrought to a mystic mood by contemplating its 
ponderous inscrutableness, Pierre had called it the Terror 
Stone. Few could be bribed to climb its giddy height, and 
crawl out upon its more hovering end. It seemed as if the 
dropping of one seed from the beak of the smallest flying bird 
would topple the immense mass over, crashing against the trees. 

It was a very familiar thing to Pierre ; he had often climbed 
it, by placing long poles against it, and so creeping up to where 
it sloped in little crumbling stepping-places ; or by climbing 
high up the neighboring beeches, and then lowering himself 
down upon the forehead-like summit by the elastic branches. 
But never had he been fearless enough — or rather fool-hardy 
enough, it may be, to crawl on the ground beneath the vacancy 
of the higher end ; that spot first menaced by the Terror Stone 
should it ever really topple. 


y. 

Yet now advancing steadily, and as if by some interior pre- 
determination, and eying the mass unfalteringly; he then 
threw himself prone upon the wood’s last year’s leaves, and slid 


182 


PIERRE. 


himself straight into the horrible interspace, and lay there as 
dead. He spoke not, for speechless thoughts were in him. 
These gave place at last to things less and less unspeakable ; 
till at last, from beneath the very brow of the beetlings and 
the menacings of the Terror Stone came the audible words of 
Pierre : — 

“ If the miseries of the undisclosable things in me, shall ever 
unhorse me from my manhood’s seat; if to vow myself all 
Virtue’s and all Truth’s, be but to make a trembling, distrusted 
slave of me ; if Life is to prove a burden I can not bear with- 
out ignominious cringings ; if indeed our actions are all fore- 
ordained, and we are Russian sei*fe to Fate ; if invisible devils 
do titter at us when we most nobly strive ; if Life be a cheat- 
ing dream, and virtue as unmeaning and unsequeled with any 
blessing as the midnight mirth of wine ; if by sacrificing myself 
for Duty’s sake, my own mother re-sacrifices me ; if Duty’s self 
be but a bugbear, and all things are allowable and unpunishable 
to man ; — then do thou, Mute Massiveness, fall on me ! Ages 
thou hast waited ; and if these things be thus, then wait no 
more ; for whom better canst thou crush than him who now 
lies here invoking thee ?” 

A down-darting bird, all song, swiftly lighted on the un- 
moved and eternally immovable balancings of the Terror Stone, 
and cheerfully chirped to Pierre. The tree-boughs bent and 
waved to the rushes of a sudden, balmy wind ; and slowly 
Pierre crawled forth, and stood haughtily upon his feet, as he 
owed thanks to none, and went his moody way. 


PIERRE. 


183 


VI. 

When in his imaginative ruminating moods of early youth, 
Pierre had christened the wonderful stone by the old resound- 
ing name of Memnon, he had done so merely from certain as- 
sociative remembrances of that Egyptian marvel, of which all 
Eastern travelers speak. And when the fugitive thought had 
long ago entered him of desiring that same stone for his head- 
stone, when he should be no more ; then he had only yielded 
to one of those innumerable fanciful notions, tinged with 
dreamy painless melancholy, which are frequently suggested 
to the mind of a poetic boy. But in after-times, when placed 
in far different circumstances from those surrounding him at 
the Meadows, Pierre pondered on the stone, and his young 
thoughts concerning it, and, later, his desperate act in crawling 
under it ; then an immense significance came to him, and the 
long-passed unconscious movements of his then youthful heart, 
seemed now prophetic to him, and allegorically verified by the 
subsequent events. 

For, not to speak of the other and subtler meanings which 
lie crouching behind the colossal haunches of this stone, re- 
garded as the menacingly impending Terror Stone — hidden to 
all the simple cottagers, but revealed to Pierre — consider its 
aspects as the Memnon Stone. For Memnon was that dewey, 
royal boy, son of Aurora, and born King of Egypt, who, with 
enthusiastic rashness flinging himself on another’s account into 
a rightful quarrel, fought hand to hand with his overmatch, 
and met his boyish and most dolorous death beneath the walls 
of Troy. His wailing subjects built a monument in Egypt to 
commemorate his untimely fate. Touched by the breath of 
the bereaved Aurora, every sunrise that statue gave forth a 
mournful broken sound, as of a harp-string suddenly sundered, 
being too harshly wound. 


PIEER E. 


184 

Herein lies an unsummed world of grief. For in this plain- 
tive fable we find embodied the Hamletism of the antique 
world ; the Hamletism of three thousand years ago : “ The 
fiower of virtue cropped by a too rare mischance.” And the 
English Tragedy is but Egyptian Memnon, Montaignized and 
modernized j Sov being but a mortal man Shakspeare had his 
fathers too. 

How as the Memnon Statue survives down to this present 
day, so does that nobly-striving but ever-shipwrecked character 
in some royal youths (for both Memnon and Hamlet were the 
sons of kings), of which that statue is the melancholy type. 
But Memnon’s sculptured woes did once melodiously resound ; 
now all is mute. Fit emblem that of old, poetry was a conse- 
cration and an obsequy to all hapless modes of human life ; 
but in a bantering, barren, and prosaic, heartless age, Auro- 
ra’s music-moan is lost among our drifting sands, which whelm 
alike the monument and the dirge. 


YII. 

As Pierre went on through the woods, all thoughts now 
left him but those investing Isabel. He strove to condense her 
mysterious haze into some definite and comprehensible shape. 
He could not but infer that the feeling of bewilderment, which 
she had so often hinted of during their interview, had caused 
her continually to go aside from the straight line of her narra- 
tion ; and finally to end it in an abrupt and enigmatical ob- 
scurity. But he also felt assured, that as this was entirely 
unintended, and now, doubtless, regretted by herself, so their 
coming second interview would help to clear up much of this 
mysteriousness ; considering that the elapsing interval would 
do much to tranquilize her, and rally her into less of wonderful- 


PIERRE. 


185 


ness to him ; he did not therefore so much accuse his unthink- 
ingness in naming the postponing hour he had. For, indeed, 
looking from the morning down the vista of the day, it seemed 
as indefinite and interminable to him. He could not bring 
himself to confront any face or house ; a plowed field, any 
sign of tillage, the rotted stump of a long-felled pine, the 
slightest passing trace of man was uncongenial and repelling 
to him. Likewise in his own mind aU remembrances and 
imaginings that had to do with the common and general hu- 
manity had become, for the time, in the most singular manner 
distasteful to him. Still, while thus loathing all that was com- 
mon in the two difierent worlds — that without, and that within 
— nevertheless, even in the most withdi-awn and subtlest re- 
gion of his own essential spirit, Pierre could not now find one 
single agi-eeable twig of thought whereon to perch his weary 
soul. 

Men in general seldom sufier from this utter pauperism of 
the spirit. If God hath not blessed them with incurable frivol- 
ity, men in general have still some secret thing of self-conceit 
or virtuous gratulation ; men in general have always done some 
small self-sacrificing deed for some other man ; and so, in those 
now and then recurring hours of despondent lassitude, which 
must at variotis and differing intervals overtake almost every 
civilized human being ; such persons straightway bethink them 
of their one, or two, or three small self-sacrificing things, and 
suck respite, consolation, and more or less compensating deli- 
ciousness from it. But with men of self-disdainful spirits ; in 
whose chosen souls heaven itself hath by a primitive pei'suasion 
unindoctrinally fixed that most true Christian doctrine of the 
utter nothingness of good works ; the casual remembrance of 
their benevolent well-doings, does never distill one drop of com- 
fort for them, even as (in harmony with the correlative Scrip- 
ture doctrine) the recalling of their outlived erroi-s and mis- 
deeds, conveys to them no slightest pang or shadow of reproach. 


186 


PIERRE. 


Though the clew-defying mysteriousness of Isabel’s naiTation, 
did now for the time, in this particular mood of his, put on a 
repelling aspect to our Pierre ; yet something must occupy the 
soul of man ; and Isabel was nearest to him then ; and Isabel 
he thought of ; at fii’st, with great discomfort and with pain, but 
anon (for heaven eventually rewards the resolute and duteous 
thinker) with lessening repugnance, and at last with still-in- 
creasing willingness and congenialness. Now he recalled his 
first impressions, here and there, while she was rehearsing to 
him her wild tale ; he recalled those swift but mystical corrob- 
orations in his own mind and memory, which by shedding 
another twinkling light upon her history, had but increased 
Its mystery, while at the same time remarkably substantia- 
ting it. 

Her fii’st recallable recollection was of an old deserted chateau- 
hke house in a strange, French-like country, which she dimly 
imagined to be somewhere beyond the sea. Did not this sur-' 
prisingly correspond with certain natural inferences to be drawn 
from his Aunt Dorothea’s account of the disappearance of the 
French young lady ? Yes ; the French young lady’s disap- 
pearance on this side the water was only contingent upon her 
reappearance on the other ; then he shuddered as he darkly 
pictured the possible sequel of her life, and the wresting from 
her of her infant, and its immurement in the savage mountain 
wilderness. 

But Isabel had also vague impressions of herself crossing the 
sea ; — recrossing, emphatically thought Pierre, as he pondered 
on the unbidden conceit, that she had probably first uncon- 
sciously and smuggledly crossed it hidden beneath her sorrow- 
ing mother’s heart. But in attempting to draw any inferences, 
from what he himself had ever heard, for a coinciding proof or 
elucidation of this assumption of Isabel’s actual crossing the sea 
at so tender an age ; here Pierre felt all the inadequateness of 
both his own and Isabel’s united knowledge, to clear up the 


PIERRE. 


187 


profound mysteriousness of her early life. To the certainty of 
this irremovable obscurity he bowed himself, and strove to dis- 
miss it from his mind, as worse than hopeless. So, also, in a 
good degree, did he endeavor to drive out of him, Isabel’s rem- 
iniscence of the, to her, unnameable large house, from which she 
had been finally removed by the pleasant woman in the coach. 
This episode in her life, above all other things, was most cru- 
elly suggestive to him, as possibly involving his father in the 
privity to a thing, at which Pierre’s inmost soul fainted with 
amazement and abhorrence. Here the helplessness of all fur- 
ther light, and the eternal impossibility of logically exonerating 
his dead father, in his own mind, from the liability to this, and 
many other of the blackest self-insinuated suppositions ; all this 
came over Pierre with a power so infernal and intense, that it 
could only have proceeded fr’om the unretarded malice of the 
Evil One himself. But subtilly and wantonly as these conceits 
.jtole into him, Pierre as subtilly opposed them ; and with the 
hue-and-cry of his whole indignant soul, pursued them forth 
again into the wide Tartarean realm from which they had 
emerged. 

The more and the more that Pierre now revolved the story 
of Isabel in his mind, so much the more he amended his origi- 
nal idea, that much of its obscurity would depart upon a 
second interview. He saw, or seemed to see, that it was not 
so much Isabel who had by her wild idiosyncrasies mystified 
the narration of her history, as it was the essential and un- 
avoidable mystery of her history itself, which had invested 
Isabel with such wonderful enigmas to him. 


188 


PIERRE, 


YIII. 

The issue of these reconsiderings was the conviction, that 
all he could now reasonably anticipate from Isabel, in further 
disclosure on the subject of her life, were some few additional 
particulars bringing it down to the present moment ; and, also, 
possibly filling out the latter portion of what she had already 
revealed to him. Nor here, could he persuade himself, that 
she would have much to say. Isabel had not been so digres- 
sive and withholding as he had thought. What more, indeed, 
could she now have to impart, except by what strange means 
she had at last come to find her brother out ; and the dreary 
recital of how she had pecuniarily wrestled with her destitute 
condition ; how she had come to leave one place of toiling 
refuge for another, till now he found her in humble servitude 
at farmer Ulver’s ? Is it possible then, thought Pierre, that 
there lives a human creature in this common world of every- 
days, whose whole history may be told in little less than two- 
score words, and yet embody in that smallness a fathomless 
fountain of ever-welling mystery ? Is it possible, after all, that 
spite of bricks and shaven faces, this world we live in is 
brimmed with wonders, and I and all mankind, beneath our 
garbs of common-placeness, conceal enigmas that the stars 
themselves, and perhaps the highest seraphim can not resolve ? 

The intuitively certain, however literally unproven fact of 
Isabel’s sisterhood to him, was a link that he now felt binding 
him to a before unimagined and endless chain of wondering. 
His very blood seemed to flow through all his arteries with 
unwonted subtileness, when he thought that the same tide 
flowed through the mystic veins of Isabel. All his occasional 
pangs of dubiousness as to the grand governing thing of all — 
the reality of the physical relationship — only recoiled back upon 
him with added tribute of both certainty and insolubleness. 


PIERRE. 


189 


She is my sister — my own father’s daughter. Well ; why 
do I believe it ? The other day I had not so much as heard 
the remotest rumor of her existence ; and what has since oc- 
curred to change me ? What so new and incontestable vouchers 
have I handled ? None at all. But I have seen her. Well ; 
grant it ; I might have seen a thousand other girls, whom I 
had never seen before ; but for that, I would not own any one 
among them for my sister. But the portrait, the chair-portrait, 
Pierre ? Think of that. But that was painted before Isabel 
was born ; what can that portrait have to do with Isabel ? It 
is not the portrait of Isabel, it is my father’s portrait ; and yet 
my mother swears it is not he. 

Now alive as he was to all these searching argumentative 
itemizings of the minutest known facts any way bearing upon 
the subject ; and yet, at the same time, persuaded, strong as 
death, that in spite of them, Isabel was indeed his sister ; how 
could PieiTe, naturally poetic, and therefore piercing as he 
was ; how could he fail to acknowledge the existence of that 
all-controlling and all-permeating wonderfulness, which, when 
imperfectly and isolatedly recognized by the generality, is so 
significantly denominated The Finger of God ? But it is not 
merely the Finger, it is the whole outspread Hand of God ; 
for doth not Scripture intimate, that He holdeth all of us in 
the hollow of His hand ? — a Hollow, truly ! 

Still wandering through the forest, his eye pursuing its ever- 
shifting shadowy vistas ; remote from all visible haunts and 
traces of that strangely wilful race, who, in the sordid traffick- 
ings of clay and mud, are ever seeking to denationalize the nat- 
ural heavenliness of their souls ; there came into the mind of 
Pierre, thoughts and fancies never imbibed within the gates of 
towns ; but only given forth by the atmosphere of primeval 
forests, which, with the eternal ocean, are the only unchanged 
general objects remaining to this day, from those that originally 
met the gaze of Adam. For so it is, that the apparently most 


190 


PIERRE. 


inflammable or evaporable of all earthly things, wood and water, 
are, in this view, immensely the most endurable. 

Now all his ponderings, however excursive, wheeled round 
Isabel as their center ; and back to her they came again from 
every excursion ; and again derived some new, small germs for 
wonderment. 

The question of Time occurred to Pierre. How old was Isa- 
bel ? According to all reasonable inferences from the presumed 
circumstances of her life, she was his elder, certainly, though by 
uncertain years ; yet her whole aspect was that of more than 
childlikeness ; nevertheless, not only did he feel his muscular 
superiority to her, so to speak, which made him spontaneously 
alive to a feeling of elderly protectingness over her ; not only 
did he experience the thoughts of superior world-acquaintance, 
and general cultured knowledge ; but spite of reason’s self, and 
irrespective of all mere computings, he was conscious of a feel- 
ing which independently pronounced him her senior in point of 
Time, and Isabel a child of everlasting youngness. This strange, 
though strong conceit of his mysterious persuasion, doubtless, 
had its untraced, and but little-suspected origin in his mind, 
from ideas born of his devout meditations upon th-e artless in- 
fantileness of her face ; which, though profoundly mournful in 
the general expression, yet did not, by any means, for that cause, 
lose one whit in its singular infantileness ; as the faces of real 
infants, in their earliest visibleness, do oft-times wear a look of 
deep and endless sadness. But it was not the sadness, nor in- 
deed, strictly speaking, the infantileness of the face of Isabel 
which so singularly impressed him with the idea of her original 
and changeless youthfulness. It was something else ; yet some- 
thing which entirely eluded him. 

Imaginatively exalted by the willing suffrages of all man- 
kind into higher and purer realms than men themselves inhabit; 
beautiful women — those of them at least who are beautiful in 
soul as well as body — do, notwithstanding the relentless law of 


PIERKE. 


191 


earthly fleetingness, still seem, for a long interval, mysteriously 
exempt from the incantations of decay ; for as the outward 
loveliness touch by touch departs, the interior beauty touch by 
touch replaces that departing bloom, with charms, which, un- 
derivable from earth, possess the ineffaceableness of stars. Else, 
why at the age of sixty, have some women held in the strong- 
est bonds of love and fealty, men young enough to be their 
grandsons? And why did all-seducing Ninon unintendingly 
break scores of hearts at seventy ? It is because of the peren- 
nialness of womanly sweetness. 

Out from the infantile, yet eternal mournfulness of the face 
of Isabel, there looked on Pierre that angelic childlikeness, 
which our Savior hints is the one only investiture of translated 
souls ; for of such — even of little children— is the other world. 

Now, unending as the wonderful rivers, which once bathed 
th^ feet of the primeval generations, and still remain to flow 
fast by the graves of all succeeding men, and by the beds of 
all now living ; unending, ever-flowing, ran through the soul 
of Pierre, fresh and fresher,' further and still further, thoughts 
of Isabel. But the more his thoughtful river ran, the more 
mysteriousness it floated to him ; and yet the more certainty 
that the mysteriousness was unchangeable. In her life there 
was an unraveled plot ; and he felt that unraveled it would 
^mally remain to him. No slightest hope or dream had he, 
that what was dark and mournful in her would ever be cleared 
up into some coming atmosphere of light and mirth. Like all 
youths, Pierre had conned his novel-lessons ; had read more 
novels than most persons of his years ; but their false, inverted 
attempts at systematizing eternally unsystemizable elements; 
their audacious, intermeddling impotency, in trying to unravel, 
and spread out, and classify, the more thin than gossamer 
threads which make up the complex web of life ; these things 
over Pierre had no power now. Straight through their helpless 
miserableness he pierced; the one sensational truth in him^ 


transfixed like beetles all the speculative lies in them. He saw” 
that human life doth truly come from that, which all men are 
agreed to call by the name of God ; and that it partakes of the 
unravelable inscrutableness of God. By infallible presenti- 
ment he saw, that not always doth life’s beginning gloom con- 
clude in gladness ; that wedding-bells peal not ever in the last 
scene of life’s fifth act ; that while the countless tribes of com- 
mon novels laboriously spin vails of mystery, only to compla- 
cently clear them up at last ; and while the countless tribe of 
common dramas do but repeat the same ; yet the profounder 
emanations of the human mind, intended to illustrate all that 
can be humanly known of human life ; these never unravel 
their own inti-icacies, and have no proper endings ; but in im- 
perfect, unanticipated, and disappointing sequels (as mutilated 
stumps), huiTy to abrupt intermergings with the eternal tides 
of time and fate. 

So Pierre renounced all thought of ever having Isabel’s dark- 
lantern illuminated to him. Her light was lidded, and the lid 
was locked. Nor did he feel a ’pang at this. By posting 
hither and thither among the reminiscences of his family, and 
craftily interrogating his remaining relatives on his father’s side, 
he might possibly rake forth some few small grains of dubious 
and most unsatisfying things, which, were he that way strongly 
bent, would only serve the more hopelessly to cripple him in 
his practical resolves. He determined to pry not at all into 
this sacred problem. For him now the mystery of Isabel pos- 
sessed all the bewitchingness of the mysterious vault of night, 
whose very darkness evokes the witchery. 

The thoughtful river still ran on in him, and now it floated 
still another thing to him. 

Though the letter of Isabel gushed with all a sister’s sacred 
longings to embrace her brother, and in the most abandoned 
terms painted the anguish of her life-long estrangement from 
him ; and though, in eflfect, it took vows to this, — that without 


PIERRE. 


193 


his continual love and sympathy, further life for her was only 
fit to be thrown into the nearest unfathomed pool, or rushing 
stream ; yet when the brother and the sister had encountered, 
according to the ,set appointment, none of these impassioned- 
ments had been repeated. She had more than thrice thanked 
God, and most earnestly blessed himself, that now he had come 
near to her in her loneliness ; but no gesture of common and 
customary sisterly afiection. Nay, from his embrace had she 
not struggled ? nor kissed him once ; nor had he kissed her, 
except when the salute was solely sought by him. 

Now Pierre began to see mysteries interpierced with mys- 
teries, and mysteries eluding mysteries ; and began to seem to 
see the mere imagiuariness of the so supposed solidest princi- 
ple of human association. Fate had done this thing for them. 
Fate had separated the brother and the sister, till to each other 
they somehow seemed so not at all. Sisters shrink not from 
their brother’s kisses. And Pierre felt that never, never would 
he be able to embrace Isabel with the mere brotherly embrace ; 
while the thought of any other caress, which took hold of any 
domesticness, was entirely vacant from his uncontaminated souh 
for it had never consciously intruded there. 

Therefore, forever unsistered for him by the stroke of Fate, 
and apparently forever, and twice removed from the remotest 
possibility of that love which had drawn him to his Lucy ; yet 
still the object of the ardentest and deepest emotions of his soul ; 
therefore, to him, Isabel wholly soared out of the realms of mor- 
talness, and for him became transfigured in the highest heaven 
of uncorrupted Love. 


BOOK YIII. : . 

THE SECOND INTERVIEW AT THE FARM-HOUSE, AND THE 
SECOND PART OF THE STORY OF ISABEL. THEIR 
IMMEDIATE IMPULSIVE EFFECT UPON PIERRE. 


I. 

His second interview with Isabel was more satisfying, but 
none the less affecting and mystical than the first, though in the 
beginning, to his no small surprise, it was far more strange and 
embarrassing. 

As before, Isabel herself admitted him into the farm-house, 
and spoke no word to him till they were both seated in the 
room of the double casement, and himself had first addressed 
her. If Pierre had any way predetermined how to deport him- 
self at the moment, it was to manifest by some outM^ard token 
the utmost affection for his sister ; but her rapt silence and that 
atmosphere of unearthliness which invested her, now froze him 
to his seat ; his arms refused to open, his lips refused to meet 
in the fraternal kiss ; while all the while his heart was over- 
flowing with the deepest love, and he knew full well, that his 
presence was inexpressibly grateful to the girl. Never did love 
and reverence so intimately react and blend ; never did pity so 
join with wonder in casting a spell upon the movements of his 
body, and impeding him in its command. 

After a few embarrassed words from Pierre, and a brief reply, 
a pause ensued, during which not only was the slow, soft step- 


P I E RK E. 


195 


ping overhead quite audible, as at intervals on the night before, 
but also some slight domestic sounds were heard from the ad- 
joining room ; and noticing the unconsciously interrogating 
expression of Pierre’s face, Isabel thus spoke to him : 

“ I feel, my brother, that thou dost appreciate the peculiarity 
and the mystery of my life, and of myself, and therefore I am at 
rest concerning the possibility of thy misconstruing any of my ac- 
tions. It is only when people refuse to admit the uncommonness 
of some persons and the circumstances surrounding them, that 
erroneous conceits are nourished, and their feelings pained. My 
brother, if ever I shall seem reserved and unembracing to thee, 
still thou must ever trust the heart of Isabel, and permit no 
doubt to cross thee there. My brother, the sounds thou hast 
just overheard in yonder room, have suggested to thee inter- 
esting questions connected with myself. Do not speak ; I fer- 
vently understand thee. I will tell thee upon what terms I 
have been living here ; and how it is that I, a hired person, am 
enabled to receive thee in this seemly privacy; for as thou 
mayest very readily imagine, this room is not my own. And 
this reminds me also that I have yet some few further trifling 
things to tell thee respecting the circumstances which have 
ended in bestowing upon me so angelical a brother.” 

“ I can not retain that word” — said Pierre, with earnest low- 
ness, and drawing a little nearer to her — “ of right, it only per- 
tains to thee.” 

“ My brother, I will now go on, and tell thee all that I think 
thou couldst wish to know, in addition to what was so dimly 
rehearsed last night. Some three months ago, the people of the 
distant farm-house, where I was then staying, broke up their house- 
hold and departed for some Western country. No plaoe imme- 
diately presented itself where my services were wanted, but I was 
hospitably received at an old neighbor’s hearth, and most kindly 
invited to tarry there, till some employ should offer. But I did 
not wait for chance to help me ; my inquiries resulted in ascer- 


196 


PI E KK B. 


taining the sad story of Delly Ulver, and that through the fate 
which had overtaken her, her aged parents were not only 
plunged into the most poignant grief, but were deprived of the 
domestic help of an only daughter, a circumstance whose deep 
discomfort can not be easily realized by persons who have always 
been ministered to by servants. Though indeed my natural 
mood — if I may call it so, for want of a better term — was 
strangely touched by thinking that the misery of Delly should 
be the source of benefit to me ; yet this had no practically ope- 
rative effect upon me, — my most inmost and truest thoughts 
seldom have ; — and so I came hither, and my hands will testify 
that I did not come entirely for naught. Now, my brother, 
since thou didst leave me yesterday, I have felt no small sur- 
prise, that thou didst not then seek from me, how and when I 
came to learn the name of Glendinning as so closely associated 
with myself ; and how I came to know Saddle Meadows to be 
the family seat, and how I at last resolved upon addressing 
thee, Pierre, and none other ; and to what may be attributed 
that very memorable scene in the sewing-cii’cle at the Miss 
Pennies.” 

“ I have myself been wondering at myself that these things 
should hitherto have so entirely absented themselves from my 
mind,” responded Pierre ; — “ but truly, Isabel, thy all-abound- 
ing hair falls upon me with some spell which dismisses all 
ordinary considerations fi’ora me, and leaves me only sensible 
to the Nubian power in thine eyes. But go on, and tell me 
every thing and any thing. I desire to know all, Isabel, and 
yet, nothing which thou wilt not voluntarily disclose. I feel 
that already I know the pith of all ; that already I feel toward 
thee to -the very limit of all ; and that, whatever remains for 
thee to tell me, can but corroborate and confirm. So go on, 
my dearest, — ay, my only sister.” 

Isabel fixed her wonderful eyes upon him with a gaze of 
long impassionment ; then rose suddenly to her feet, and ad- 


197 


PIERRE. 


vanced swiftly toward him ; but more suddenly paused, and 
reseated herself in silence, and continued so for a time, with 
her head averted from him, and mutely resting on her hand, 
gazing out of the open casement upon the soft heat-lightning, 
occasionally revealed there. 

She resumed anon. 


II. 

“ My brother, thou wilt i-emember that certain part of my 
story which in reference to my more childish years spent re- 
mote from here, introduced the gentleman — my — yes, our 
father, PieiTe. I can not describe to thee, for indeed, I do not 
myself comprehend how it was, that though at the time I 
sometimes called him my father, and the people of the house 
also called him. so, sometimes when speaking of him to me ; 
yet — ^partly, I suppose, because of the extraordinary secluded- 
ness of my previous life — I did not then join in my mind with 
the word father, all those peculiar associations which the term 
ordinarily inspires in children. The word father only seemed 
a word of general love and endearment to me — little or noth- 
ing more ; it did not seem to involve any claims of any sort, 
one way or the other. I did not ask the name of my father ; 
for I could have had no motive to hear him named, except to 
individualize the person who was so peculiarly kind to me : and 
individualized in that way he already was, since he was gener- 
ally called by us the gentleman^ and sometimes my father. As 
I have no reason to suppose that had I then or afterward, ques- 
tioned the people of the house as to what more particular 
name my father went by in the world, they would have at all 
disclosed it to me; and, indeed, since, for certain singular 
reasons, I now feel convinced that on that point they were 


198 


PIEEBE. 


pledged to secrecy ; I do not know that I ever would have 
come to learn my father’s name, — and by consequence, ever 
have learned the least shade or shadow of knowledge as to 
you, Pierre, or any of your kin — had it not been for the merest 
little accident, which early revealed it to me, though at the 
moment I did not know the value of that knowledge. The 
last time my father visited the house, he chanced to leave his 
handkerchief behind him. It was the farmer’s wife who first 
discovered it. She picked it up, and fumbling at it a moment, 
as if rapidly examining the corners, tossed it to me, saying, 
‘ Here, Isabel, here is the good gentleman’s handkerchief ; keep 
it for him now, till he comes to see little Bell again.’ Gladly 
I caught the handkerchief, and put it into my bosom. It was 
a white one ; and upon closely scanning it, I found a small 
line of fine faded yellowish writing in the middle of it. At 
that time I could not read either print or writing, so I was 
none the wiser then ; but still, some secret instinct told me, 
that the woman would not so freely have given me the hand- 
kerchief, had she known there was any writing on it. I forbore 
questioning her on the subject ; I waited till my father should 
return, to secretly question him. The handkerchief had become 
dusty by lying on the uncarpeted floor. I took it to the brook 
and washed it, and laid it out on the grass where none would 
chance to pass ; and I ironed it under my little apron, so that 
none would be attracted to it, to look at it again. But my 
father never returned ; so, in my grief, the handkerchief became 
the more and the more endeared to me ; it absorbed many of 
the secret tears I wept in memory of my dear departed friend, 
whom, in my child-like ignorance, I then equally called my 
father and the gentleman. But when the impression of his 
death became a fixed thing to me, then again I washed and 
dried and ironed the precious memorial of him, and put it 
away where none should find it but myself, and resolved never 
more to soil it with my tears ; and I folded it in such a man- 


PIERRE 


199 


ner, that the name was invisibly buried in the heart of it, and 
it was like opening a book and turning over many blank leaves 
before I came to the mysterious writing, which I knew should 
be one day read by me, without direct help from any one. 
Now I resolved to learn my letters, and learn to read, in order 
that of myself I might learn the meaning of those faded 
characters. No other purpose but that only one, did I have 
in learning then to read. I easily induced the woman to give 
me my little teachings, and being uncommonly quick, and 
moreover, most eager to learn, I soon mastered the alphabet, 
and went on to spelling, and by-and-by to reading, and at last 
to the complete deciphering of the talismanic word — Glendin- 
ning. I was yet yery ignorant. Olendinning, thought I, 
what is that ? It sounds something like gentleman ; — Glen- 
din-ning ; — just as many syllables as gentleman ; and — G — it 
degins with the same letter ; yes, it must mean my father. T 
(vill think of him by that word now ; — I will not think of the 
gentleman., but of Glendinning. When at last I removed 
from that house and went to another, and still another, and as 
I still grew up and thought more to myself, that word was 
ever humming in my head, I saw it would only prove the key 
to more. But I repressed all undue curiosity, if any such has 
ever filled my breast. I would not ask of any one, who it was 
that had been Glendinning ; where he had lived ; whether, 
ever any other girl or boy had called him father as I had done. 
I resolved to hold myself in perfect patience, as somehow mys- 
' tically certain, that Fate would at last disclose to me, of itself, 
and at the suitable time, whatever Fate thought it best for me 
to know. But now, my brother, I must go aside a little for a 
moment. — Hand me the guitar.” 

Surprised and rejoiced thus far at the unanticipated newness, 
and the sweet lucidness and simplicity of Isabel’s narrating, as 
compared with the obscure and marvelous revelations of the 
night before, and all eager for her to continue her story in the 


200 


PIERRE. 


same limpid manner, but remembering into wbat a wholly tu- 
multuous and unearthly frame of mind the melodies of her gui- 
tar had formerly thrown him ; Pierre now, in handing the in- 
strument to Isabel, could not enthely restrain something like a 
look of half-regret, accompanied rather strangely with a half- 
smile of gentle humor. It did not pass unnoticed by his sister, 
who receiving the guitar, looked up into his face with an ex- 
pression which would almost have been arch and playful, were 
it not for the ever-abiding shadows cast from her infinite hair 
into her unfathomed eyes, and redoubledly shot back again 
from them. 

“ Do not be alarmed, my brother ; and do not smile at me ; 
I am not going to play the Mystery of Isabel to thee to-night. 
Draw nearer to me now. Hold the light near to me.” 

So saying she loosened some ivory screws of the guitar, so as 
to open a peep lengthwise through its interior. 

“ Now hold it thus, my brother ; thus ; and see what thou 
wilt see ; but wait one instant till I hold the lamp.” So say- 
ing, as Pierre held the instrument before him as directed, Isa- 
bel held the lamp so as to cast its light through the round 
sounding-hole into the heart of the guitar. 

“ Now, Pierre, now.” 

Eagerly Pierre did as he was bid ; but somehow felt disap- 
pointed, and yet surprised at what he saw. He saw the word 
Isabel^ quite legibly but still fadedly gilded upon a part of one 
side of the interior, where it made a projecting curve. 

“ A very curious place thou hast chosen, Isabel, wherein to 
have the ownei'ship of the guitar engraved. How did ever any 
person get in there to do it, I should like to know ?” 

The girl looked surprisedly at him a moment ; then took the 
instrument from him, and looked into it herself. She put it 
down, and continued. 

“ I see, my brother, thou dost not comprehend. When one 
knows every thing about any object, one is too apt to suppose 


PIERRE. 


201 


that the slightest hint will suffice to throw it quite as open to 
any other person. I did not have the name gilded there, my 
brother.” 

“ How ?” cried PieiTe. 

“ The name was gilded there when I fii’st got the guitar 
though then I did not know it. The guitar must have been 
expressly made for some one by the name of Isabel ; because 
the lettering could only have been put there before the guitar 
was put together.” 

“ Go on — hurry,” said Pien’e. 

“ Yes, one day, after I had owned it a long time, a strange 
whim came into me. Thou know’st that it is not at all un- 
common for children to break their dearest playthings in order 
to gratify a half-crazy curiosity to find out what is in the hid- 
den heart of them. So it is with children, sometimes. And, 
Pierre, I have always been, and feel that I must always con- 
tinue to be a child, though I should grow to three score years 
and ten. Seized with this sudden whim, I unscrewed the part 
I showed thee, and peeped in, and saw ‘ Isabel.’ How I have 
not yet told thee, that from as early a time as I can remember, 
I have nearly always gone by the name of Bell. And at the 
particular time I now speak of, my knowledge of general and 
trivial matters was sufficiently advanced to make it quite a 
familiar thing to me, that Bell was often a diminutive for Isa- 
bella, or Isabel. It was therefore no very strange affair, that 
considering my age, and other connected circumstances at the 
time, I should have instinctively associated the word Isabel^ 
found in the guitar, with my own abbreviated name, and so be 
led into all sorts of fancyings. They return upon me now. 
Do not speak to me.” 

She leaned away from him, toward the occasionally illumi- 
nated casement, in the same manner as on the previous night, 
and for a few moments seemed struggling with some wild be- 
wilderment. But now she suddenly turned, and fully con- 

I* 


202 


PIERRE. 


fronted Pierre with all the wonderfulness of her most surprising 
face. 

“ I am called woman, and thou, man, Pierre ; but there is 
neither man nor woman about it. Why should I not speak 
out to thee ? There is no sex in our immaculateness. Pierre, 
the secret name in the guitar even now thrills me through and 
through. Pierre, think ! think ! Oh, canst thou not compre- 
hend ? see it ? — what I mean, Pierre ? The secret name in the 
guitar thrills me, thrills me, whirls me, whirls me ; so secret, 
wholly hidden, yet constantly carried about in it ; unseen, un- 
suspected, always vibrating to the hidden heart-strings — broken 
heart-strings ; oh, my mother, my mother, my mother !” 

As the wild plaints of Isabel pie^’ced into his bosom’s core, 
they carried with them the first inkling of the extraordinary 
con'ceit, so vaguely and shrinkingly hinted at in her till now 
entirely unintelligible words. 

She lifted her dry burning eyes of long-fringed fire to him. 

“ Pierre — I have no slightest proof — but the guitar was hers, 
I know, I feel it was. Say, did I not last night tell thee, how 
it first sung to me upon the bed, and answered me, without my 
once touching it ? and how it always sung to me and answered 
me, and soothed and loved me, — Hark now ; thou shalt hear 
my mother’s spirit.” 

She carefully scanned the strings, and tuned them carefully ; 
then placed the guitar in the casement-bench, and knelt before 
it; and in low, sweet, and changefully modulated notes, so 
barely audible, that Pierre bent over to catch them ; breathed 
the word mother, mother, mother ! There was profound silence 
for a time; when suddenly, to the lowest and least audible 
note of all, the magical untouched guitar responded with a 
quick spark of melody, which in the following hush, long vi- 
brated and subsidingly tingled through the room ; while to his 
augmented wonder, he now espied, quivering along the metallic 
strings of the guitar, some minute scintillations, seemingly 


caught from the instrument’s close proximity to the occasionally 
irradiated window. 

The girl still kept kneeling ; but an altogether unwonted ex- 
pression suddenly overcast her whole countenance. She darted 
one swift glance at Pierre ; and then with a single toss of her 
hand tumbled her unrestrained locks all over her, so that they 
tent-wise invested her whole kneeling form close to the floor, 
and yet swept the floor with their wild redundancy. ISTever 
Saya of Limeean girl, at dim mass in St. Dominic’s cathedral, 
so completely muffled the human figure. To Pierre, the deep 
oaken recess of the double-casement, before which Isabel was 
kneeling, seemed now the immediate vestibule of some awful 
shrine, mystically revealed through the obscurely open window, 
which ever and anon was still softly illumined by the mild 
heat-lightnings and ground-lightnings, that wove their wonder- 
fulness without, in the unsearchable air of that ebonly warm 
and most noiseless summer night. 

Some imsubduable word was on Pierre’s lip, but a sudden 
voice from out the vail bade him be silent. 

“ Mother — mother — mother !” 

Again, after a preluding silence, the guitar as magically re- 
sponded as before ; the sparks quivered along its strings ^ and 
again Pierre felt as in the immediate presence of the spirit. 

“ Shall I, mother ? — Art thou ready ? Wilt thou tell me ? — 
Now ? Now ?” 

These words were lowly and sweetly murmured in the same 
way with the w'ord mother, being changefully varied in their 
modulations, till at the last noiv^ the magical guitar again re- 
sponded ; and the girl swiftly drew it to her beneath her dark 
tent of hair. In this act, as the, long curls swept over the 
strings of the guitar, the strange sparks — still quivering there — 
caught at those attractive curls ; the entire casement was sud- 
denly and wovenly illumined ; then waned again ; while now, 
in the succeeding dimness, every downward undulating wave 


204 


PIERRE. 


and billow of Isabel’s tossed tresses gleamed here and there like 
a tract of phosphorescent midnight sea ; and, simultaneously, 
all the four winds of the world of melody broke loose , 
and again as on the previous night, only in a still more subtile, 
and wholly inexplicable way, Pierre felt himself surrounded by 
ten thousand sprites and gnomes, and his whole soul wa? 
swayed and tossed by supernatural tides ; and again he heard 
the wondrous, rebounding, chanted words : 

“ Mystery ! Mystery > 

Mystery of Isabel ! 

Mystery! Mystery! 

Isabel and Mystery I 
Mystery !” 


III. 

Almost deprived of consciousness by the spell hung over 
him by the marvelous girl, Pierre unknowingly gazed away 
from her, as on vacancy ; and when at last stillness had once 
more fallen upon the room — all except the stepping — and he 
recovered his self-possession, and turned to look where he might 
now be, he was surprised to see Isabel composedly, though 
avertedly, seated on the bench ; the longer and fuller tresses of 
her now ungleaming hair flung back, and the guitar quietly 
leaning in the corner. 

He was about to put some uuconsidered question to her, but 
she half-anticipated it by bidding him, in a low, but neverthe- 
less almost authoritative tone, not to make any allusion to the 
scene he had just beheld. 

He paused, profoundly thinking to himself, and now felt cer- 
tain that the entire scene, from the first musical invocation of 
the guitar, must have unpremeditatedly proceeded from a 


PIE K H E. 


20 & 


sudden impulse in the girl, inspired by the peculiar mood into 
which the preceding convemation, and especially the handhng of 
the guitar under such circumstances, had irresistibly thrown her. 

But that certain something of the preternatural in the scene, 
of which he could not rid his mind : — the, so to speak, volun- 
tary and all but intelligent responsiveness of the guitar — its 
strangely scintillating strings — the so suddenly glorified head 
of Isabel ; altogether, these things seemed not at the time en- 
tirely produced by customary or natural causes. To Pierre’s 
dilated senses Isabel seemed to swim in an electric fluid ; the 
vivid buckler of her brow seemed as a magnetic plate. Now 
first this night was Pierre made aware of what, in the supersti- 
tiousness of his rapt enthusiasm, he could not help believing 
was an extraordinary physical magnetism in Isabel. And — as 
it were derived from this marvelous quality thus imputed to 
her — he now first became vaguely sensible of a certain still 
more marvelous power in the girl over himself and his most 
interior thoughts and motions ; — a power so hovering upon the 
confines of the invisible world, that it seemed more inclined that 
way than this ; — a power which not only seemed irresistibly to 
draw him toward Isabel, but to draw him away from another 
quarter — wantonly as it were, and yet quite ignorantly and 
unintendingly ; and, besides, without respect apparently to any 
thing ulterior, and yet again, only under cover of drawing 
him to her. For over all these things, and interfusing itself 
with the sparkling electricity in which she seemed to swim, 
was an ever-creeping and condensing haze of ambiguities. 
Often, in after-times with her, did he recall this first mag- 
netic night, and would seem to see that she then had bound 
him to her by an extraordinary atmospheric spell — both phys- 
ical and spiritual — which henceforth it had become impossible 
for him to break, but whose full potency he never recognized 
till long after he had become habituated to its sway. This 
spell seemed one with that Pantheistic master-spell, which 


206 


PIERRE. 


eternally locks in mystery and in muteness the universal sub- 
ject world, and the physical electricalness of Isabel seemed re- 
ciprocal with the heat-lightnings and the ground-lightnings 
nigh to which it had fii*st become revealed to Pierre. She 
seemed molded from fire and air, and vivified at some Vol- 
taic pile of August thunder-clouds heaped against the sunset. 

The occasional sweet simplicity, and innocence, and humble- 
ness of her story ; her often serene and open aspect ; her deep- 
seated, but mostly quiet, unobtrusive sadness, and that touching- 
ness of her less unwonted tone and air ; — these only the more 
signalized and contrastingly emphasized the profounder, subtler, 
and more mystic part of her. Especially did Pierre feel this, 
when after another silent interval, she now proceeded with her 
story in a manner so gently confiding, so entirely artless, so al- 
most peasant-like in its simplicity, and dealing in some details 
so little sublimated in themselves, that it seemed well nigh 
impossible that this unassuming maid should be the same dark, 
regal being who had but just now bade Pierre be silent in so 
imperious a tone, and around whose wondrous temples the 
strange electric glory had been playing. Yet not very long did 
she now thus innocently proceed, ere, at times, some fainter 
flashes of her electricalness came from her, but only to be fol- 
lowed by such melting, human, and most feminine traits as 
brought all his soft, enthusiast tears into the sympathetic but 
still unshedding eyes of Pierre. 


lY. 

“ Thou rememberest, my brother, my telling thee last night, 
how the — the — thou knowest what I mean — that^ there''' — avert- 
edly pointing to the guitar ; “ thou rememberest how it came 
into my possession. But perhaps I did not tell thee, that the 


P I EERE. 


207 


pedler said he had got it in barter from the servants of a great 
house some distance from the place where I was then resid- 
ing” 

Pierre signed his acquiescence, and Isabel proceeded : 

“ Now, at long though stated intervals, that man passed the 
farm-house in his trading route between the small towns and 
villages. When I discovered the gilding in the guitar, I kept 
watch for him ; for though I truly felt persuaded that Fate had 
the dispensing of her own secrets in her own good time ; yet 
I also felt persuaded that in some cases Fate drops us one little 
hint, leaving our own minds to follow it up, so that we of our- 
selves may come to the grand secret in reserve. So I kept dil- 
igent watch for him ; and the next time he stopped, without 
permitting him at all to guess my motives, I contrived to steal 
out of him what gi’eat house it was from which the guitar had 
come. And, my brother, it was the mansion of Saddle Mead- 
ows.” 

Pierre started, and the girl went on : 

“ Yes, my brother. Saddle Meadows ; ‘ old General Glendin- 
ning’s place,’ he said ; ‘ but the old hero ’s long dead and gone 
now ; and — the more ’s the pity — so is the young General, his 
son, dead and gone ; but then there is a still younger grandson 
General left ; that family always keep the title and the name 
a-going; yes, even to the surname, — Pierre. Pien-e Glendin- 
ing was the white-haired old General’s name, who fought in 
the old French and Indian wars ; and Pierre Glendinning is 
his young great-grandson’s name.’ Thou may’st well look at 
me so, my brother ; — ^yes, he meant thee, thee^ my brother.” 

“ But the guitar — ^the guitar !” — cried Pierre — “ how came 
the guitar openly at Saddle Meadows, and how came it to be 
bartered away by servants ? Tell me that, Isabel !” 

“ Do not put such impetuous questions to me, Pierre ; else 
thou mayst recall the old — may be, it is the evil spell upon me. 
I can not precisely and knowingly answer thee. I could sur- 


208 


PIERRE. 


mise ; but what are surmises worth ? Oh, Pierre, better, a mil- 
lion times, and far sweeter are mysteries than surmises : though 
the mystery be unfathomable, it is still the unfathomableness of 
fullness ; but the surmise, that is but shallow and unmeaning 



“ But this is the most inexplicable point of all. Tell me, 
Isabel ; surely thou must have thought something about this 
thing.” 

“ Much, PieiTe, very much ; but only about the mystery of 
it — nothing more. Could I, I would not now Be hilly told, how 
the guitar came to be at Saddle Meadows, and came to be bar- 
tered away by the servants of Saddle Meadows. Enough, that 
it found me out, and came to me, and spoke and sung to me, 
and soothed me, and has been every thing to me.” 

She paused a moment ; while vaguely to his secret self Pierre 
revolved these strange reveahngs ; but now he was all attention 
again as Isabel resumed. 

“ I now held in my mind’s hand the clew, my brother. But 
I did not immediately follow it further up. Sufficient to me in 
my loneliness was the knowledge, that I now knew where my 
father’s family was to be found. As yet not the slightest inten- 
tion of ever disclosing myself to them, had entered my mind. 
And assured as I was, that for obvious reasons, none of his sur- 
viving relatives could possibly know me, even if they saw me, 
for what I really was, I felt entire security in the event of en- 
countering any of them by chance. But my unavoidable dis- 
placements and migrations from one house to another, at last 
brought me within twelve miles of Saddle Meadows. I began 
to feel an increasing longing in me; but side by side with it, a 
new-born and competing pride, — ^yes, pnde, Pierre. Do my 
eyes flash ? They belie me, if they do not. But it is no com- 
mon pride, Pierre ; for what has Isabel to be proud of in this 
world ? It is the pride of — of — a too,’ too longing, loving heart, 
Pierre — the pride of lasting suffering and gi'ief, m}’- brother ! 


PIERRE. 


209 


Yes, I conquered the great longing with the still more power- 
ful pride, Pierre; and so I would not now be here, in this 
room, — nor wouldst thou ever have received any line from me ; 
nor, in all worldly probability, ever so much as heard of her 
who is called Isabel Banford, had it not been for my hearing 
that at Walter Ulver’s, only three miles from the mansion of 
Saddle Meadows, poor Bell would find people kind enough to 
give her wages for her work. Feel my hand, my brother.” 

“ Dear divine girl, my own exalted Isabel !” cried Pierre, 
catching the ofiered hand with ungovernable emotion, “ how 
most unbeseeming, that this strange hardness, and this still 
stranger littleness should be united in any human hand. But 
hard and small, it by an opposite analogy hints of the soft 
capacious heart that made the hand so hard with heavenly sub- 
mission to thy most undeserved and martyred lot. Would, 
Isabel, that these my kisses on the hand, were on the heart 
itself, and dropt the seeds of eternal joy and comfort there.” 

He leaped to his feet, and stood before her with such warm, 
god-like majesty of love and tenderness, that the gul gazed up 
at him as though he were the one benignant star in all her 
general night. 

“ Isabel,” cried Pierre, “ I stand the sweet penance in my fath- 
er’s stead, thou, in thy mother’s. By our earthly acts we shall re- 
deemingly bless both their eternal lots ; we will love with the 
pure and perfect love of angel to an angel. If ever I fall from 
thee, dear Isabel, may. Pierre fall from himself ; fall back for- 
ever in^o vacant nothingness and night !” 

“ My brother, my brother, speak not so to me ; it is too 
much ; unused to any love ere now, thine, so heavenly and 
immense, fells crushing on me ! Such love is almost hard to 
bear as hate. Be still ; do not speak to me.” 

They were both silent for a time ; when she went on. 

“ Yes, my brother. Fate had now brought me within three 
miles of thee ; and— but shall I go straight on, and tell thee 


210 


PIEREE. 


all, Pierre ? all ? every thing ? art thou of such divineness, that 
I may speak straight on, in all my thoughts, heedless whither 
they may flow, or what things they may float to me ?” 

“ Straight on, and fearlessly,” said Pierre. 

“ By chance I saw^ thy mother, Pierre, and under such cir- 
cumstances that I knew her to be thy mother ; and — ^but shall 
I go on ?” 

“ Straight on, my Isabel ; thou didst see my mother — well ?” 

“ And when I saw her, though I spake not to her, nor she 
to me, yet straightway my heart knew that she would love me 
not.” 

“ Thy heart spake true,” muttered Pierre to himself ; “ go 
on.” 

“ I re- swore an oath never to reveal myself to thy mother.” 

“ Oath well sworn,” again he muttered ; “ go on.” 

“ But I saw thee, Pierre ; and, more than ever filled my 
mother toward thy father, Pierre, then upheaved in me. 
Straightway I knew that if ever I should come to be made 
known to thee, then thy own generous love would open itself to 
me.” 

“ Again thy heart spake true,” he murmured ; “ go on — and 
didst thou re-swear again ?” 

“ No, Pierre ; but yes, I did. I swore that thou wert my 
brother ; with love and pride I swore, that young and noble 
Pierre Glendinning was my brother !” 

“ And only that ?” 

“ Nothing more, Pierre ; not to thee even, did I eve^ think 
to reveal myself.” 

“ How then ? thou art revealed to me.” 

“ Yes ; but the great God did it, Pien’e — not poor Bell. 
Listen. 

“ I felt very dreary here ; poor, dear Delly — thou must have 
heard something of her story — a most sorrowful house, Pierre. 
Hark ! that is her seldom-pausing pacing thou hearest from the 


PIERRE. 


211 


floor above. So she keeps ever pacing, pacing, pacing ; in her 
track, all thread-bare, Pierre, is her chamber-rug. Her father 
-will not look upon her ; her mother, she hath cursed her to her 
face. Out of yon chamber, Pierre, Delly hath not stept, for 
now four weeks and more ; nor ever hath she once laid upon 
her bed ; it was last made up five weeks ago ; but paces, paces, 
paces, all through the night, till after twelve ; and then sits 
vacant in her chair. Often I would go to her to comfort her ; 
but she says, ‘Nay, nay, nay,’ to me through the door; says 
‘ Nay, nay, nay,’ and only nay to me, through the bolted door ; 
bolted three weeks ago — when I by cunning arts stole her dead 
baby from her, and with these fingers, alone, by night, scooped 
out a hollow, and, seconding heaven’s own charitable stroke, 
buried that sweet, wee symbol of her not unpardonable shame 
far from the ruthless foot of man — yes, bolted three weeks ago, 
not once unbolted since ; her food I must thrust through the 
little window in her closet. Pierre, hardly these two handfuls 
has she eaten in a week.” 

“ Curses, wasp-like, cohere on that villain, Ned, and sting 
him to his death !” cried Pierre, smit by this most piteous tale. 
“ What can be done for her, sweet Isabel ; can Pierre do 
aught ?” 

“If thou or I do not, then the ever-hospitable grave will 
prove her quick refuge, Pierre. Father and mother both, are 
worse than dead and gone to her. They would have turned 
her forth, I think, but for my own poor petitionings, unceasing 
in her behalf.” 

Pierre’s deep concern now gave place to a momentary look 
of benevolent intelligence. 

“ Isabel, a thought of benefit to Delly has just entered me ; 
but I am still uncertain how best it may be acted on. Resolved 
I am though to succor her. Do thou still hold her here yet 
awhile, by thy sweet petitionings, till my further plans are 


212 


PIE REE. 


more matured. Now run on with thy story, and so divert me 
from the pacing ; — ^her every step steps in my soul.” 

“ Thy noble heart hath many chambers, Pierre ; the records 
of thy wealth, I see, are not bound up in the one poor book of 
Isabel, my brother. Thou art a visible token, Pierre, of the in- 
visible angel-hoods, which in our darker hours we do sometimes 
distrust. The gospel of thy acts goes very far, my brother. 
Were all men like to thee, then were there no men at all, — 
mankind extinct in seraphim !” 

“ Praises are for the base, my sister, cunningly to entice them 
to fair Virtue by our ignorings of the ill in them, and our im- 
putings of the good not theim. So make not my head to 
hang, sweet Isabel Praise me not. Oo on now with thy 
tale.” 

I have said to thee, my brother, how most dreary I found 
it here, and from the fii-st. Wonted all my life to sadness — if 
it be such — still, this house hath such acuteness in its general 
grief, such hopelessness and despair of any slightest remedy — 
that even poor Bell could scarce abide it always, without some 
little going forth into contrasting scenes. So I went forth into 
the places of delight, only that I might return more braced to 
minister in the haunts of woe. For continual unchanging resi- 
dence therein, doth but bring on woe’s stupor, and make us as 
dead. So I went forth betimes ; visiting the neighboring cot- 
tages ; where there were chattering children, and no one place 
vacant at the cheerful board. Thus at last I chanced to hear 
of the Sewing Circle to be held at the Miss Pennies’ ; and how 
that they were anxious to press into their kind charity all the 
maidens of the country round. In various cottages, I was be- 
sought to join ; and they at length pei-suaded me ; not that I 
was naturally loth to it, and needed such entreaties ; but at 
first I felt great fear, lest at such a scene I might closely en- 
counter some of the Glendinnings ; and that thought was then 
namelessly repulsive to me. But by stealthy inquiries I 


PIERRE. 


213 


learned, that the lady of the manorial-house would not be pres- 
ent ; — it proved deceptive information ; — hut I went ; and all 
the rest thou knowest.” 

“ I do, sweet Isabel, hut thou must tell it over to me ; and 
all thy emotions there.” 


Y. 

“ Though hut one day hath passed, my brother, since we 
fii-st met in life, yet thou hast that heavenly magnet in thee, 
which draws all my soul’s interior to thee. I will go on. — 
Having to wait for a neighbor’s wagon, I arrived but late at 
the Sewing Circle. When I entered, the two joined rooms 
were very full. With the farmer’s girls, our neighbors, I pass- 
ed along to the further corner, where thou didst see me ; and 
as I went, some heads were turned, and some whisperings I 
heard, of — ‘ She’s the new help at poor Walter Ulver’s — the 
strange girl they’ve got — she thinks herself ’mazing pretty. I’ll 
be bound ; — ^but nobody knows her — Oh, how demure ! — but 
not over-good, I guess ; — I wouldn’t be her, not I — mayhap 
she’s some other ruined Delly, run away ; — minx !’ It was the 
fii’st time poor Bell had ever mixed in such a general crowded 
company ; and knowing little or nothing of such things, I had 
thought, that the meeting being for charity’s sweet sake, un- 
charity could find no harbor there ; but no doubt it was mere 
thoughtlessness, not malice in them. Still, it made my heart 
ache in me sadly ; for then I very keenly felt the dread suspi- 
ciousness, in which a strange and lonely grief invests itself to 
common eyes ; as if gi’ief itself were not enough, nor innocence 
any armor to us, but despite must also come, and icy infamy ! 
Miserable returnings then I had — even in the midst of bright- 
budding girls and full-blown women — miserable returnings then 


214 


PIERRE. 


I had of the feeling, the bewildering feeling of the inhumani- 
ties I spoke of in my earlier story. But Pierre, blessed Pierre, 
do not look so sadly and half-reproachfully upon me. Lone 
and lost though I have been, I love my kind ; and charitably 
and intelligently pity them, who uncharitably and unintelli- 
gently do me despite. x\nd thou, thou^ blessed brother, hath 
glorified many somber places in my soul, and taught me once 
for all to know, that my kind are capable of things which would 
be glorious in angels. So look away from me, dear Pierre, till 
thou hast taught thine eyes more wonted glances.” 

“ They are vile falsifying telegraphs of me, then, sweet Isabel. 
What my look was I can not tell, but my heart was only dark 
with ill-restrained upbraidings against heaven that could un- 
relentingly see such innocence as thine so suffer. Go on with 
thy too-touching tale.” 

“ Quietly I sat there sewing, not brave enough to look up at 
all, and thanking my good star, that had led me to so con- 
cealed a nook behind the rest : quietly I sat there, sewing on a 
flannel shirt, and with each stitch praying God, that whatever 
heart it might be folded over, thb flannel might hold it truly 
warm ; and keep out the wide-world-coldness which I felt my- 
self ; and which no flannel, or thickest fur, or any fire then 
could keep off from me; quietly I sat there sewing, when I 
heard the announcing words — oh, how deep and ineffaceably 
engraved they are! — ‘Ah, dames, dames, Madame Glendin- 
ning, — Master Pierre Glendinning.’ Instantly, my sharp needle 
went through my side and stitched my heart; the flannel dropt 
from my hand ; thou heard’st my shriek. But the good peo- 
ple bore me still nearer to the casement close at hand, and 
threw it open wide ; and God’s own breath breathed on me ; 
and I rallied ; and said it was some merest passing fit — ’twas 
quite over now — I was used to it — they had my heart’s best 
thanks — but would they now only leave me to myself, it were 
best for me ; — I would go on and sew. And thus it came and 


PIERRE. 


215 


passed away ; and again I sat sewing on the flannel, hoping 
either that the unanticipated persons would soon depart, or 
else that some spirit would catch me away from there ; I sat 
sewing on — till, Pierre! Pierre I — without looking up — ^for 
that I dared not do at any time that evening — only once — 
without looking up, or knowing aught but the flannel on mv 
knee, and the needle in my heart, I felt, — Pien-e, felt — a 
glance of magnetic meaning on me. Long, I, shrinking, side- 
ways turned to meet it, but could not ; till some helping spirit 
seized me, and all my soul looked up at thee in my full-front- 
ing face. It was enough. Fate was in that moment. All 
the loneliness of my life, all the choked longings of my soul, 
now poured over me. I could not away from them. Then 
first I felt the complete deplorableness of my state ; that while 
thou, my brother, had a mother, and troops of aunts and 
cousins, and plentiful friends in city and in country — I, I, 
Isabel, thy own father’s daughter, was thrust out of all hearts’ 
gates, and shivered in the winter way. But this was but the 
least. Not poor Bell can tell thee all thet feeling-s of poor Bell, 
or what feelings she felt first. It was all one whirl of old and 
new bewildering*s, mixed and slanted with a driving madness. 
But it was most the sweet, inquisitive, kindly interested aspect 
of thy face, — so strangely like thy father’s, too — the one only 
being that I first did love — ^it was that which most stirred the 
distracting storm in me ; most charged me with the immense 
longings for some one of my blood to know me, and to own 
me, though but once, and then away. Oh, my dear brother — 
Pierre I Pierre ! — could’st thou take out my heart, and look at 
it in thy hand, then thou would’st find it all over written, this 
way and that, and crossed again, and yet again, with continual 
lines of longings, that found no end but in suddenly calling 
thee. Call him 1 Call him ! He will come I — so cried my 
heart to me ; so cried the leaves and stars to me, as I that 
night went home. But pride rose up— the very pride in my 


216 


PIERRE. 


own longings, — and as one arm pulled, the other held. So I 
stood still, and called thee not. But Fate will be Fate, and it 
was fated. Once having met thy fixed regardful glance ; once 
having seen the full angclicalness in thee, my whole soul was 
undone by thee ; my whole pride was cut off at the root, and 
soon showed a blighting in the bud ; which spread deep into 
my whole being, till I knew, that utterly decay and die away 
I must, unless pride let me go, and I, with the one little trum- 
pet of a pen, blew my heart’s shrillest blast, and called dear 
Pierre to me. My soul was full ; and as my beseeching ink 
went tracing o’er the page, my tears contributed their mite, 
and made a strange alloy. How blest I felt that my so bit- 
terly tear-mingled ink — that last depth of my anguish — would 
never be visibly known to thee, but the tears would dry upon 
the page, and all be fair again, ere the so submerged-fireighted 
letter should meet thine eye. 

“ Ah, there thou wast deceived, poor Isabel,” cried PieiTe 
impulsively ; “ thy tears dried not fair, but dried red, almost 
like blood ; and nothing so much moved my inmost soul as 
that tragic sight.” 

“ How ? how ? Pierre, my brother ? Dried they red ? Oh, 
horrible ! enchantment ! most undreamed of!” 

“ Nay, the ink — the ink ! something chemic in it changed 
thy real tears to seeming blood ; — only that, my sister.” 

“ Oh Pierre I thus wonderfully is it — seems to me — that our 
own hearts do not ever know the extremity of their own suSer- 
ings ; sometimes we bleed blood, when we think it only water. 
Of our sufferings, as of our talents, othei*s sometimes are the 
better judges. But stop me 1 force me backward to my story I 
Yet methinks that now thou knowest all ; — no, not entirely all. 
Thou dost not know what planned and winnowed motive I did 
have in writing thee ; nor does poor Bell know that ; for poor 
Bell was too delirious to have planned and winnowed motives 
then. The impulse in me called thee, not poor Bell. God 


PIERRE. 


217 


called thee, Pierre, not poor Bell. Even now, when I have 
passed one night after seeing thee, and hearkening to all thy 
full love and graciousness ; even now, I stand as one amazed, 
and feel not what may be coming to me, or what will now be- 
fall me, from having so rashly claimed thee for mine. Pierre, 
now, now^ this instant a vague anguish fills me. Tell me, by 
loving me, by owning me, publicly or secretly, — tell me, doth 
it involve any vital hurt to thee? Speak without reserve; 
speak honestly ; as I do to thee ! Speak now, Pierre, and 
tell me all !” 

“ Is Love a harm ? Can Truth betray to pain ? Sweet 
Isabel, how can hurt come in the path to God ? Now, when I 
know thee all, now did I forget thee, fail to acknowledge thee, 
and love thee before the wide world’s whole brazen width — 
could I do that ; then might’st thou ask thy question reason- 
ably and say — Tell me, Pierre, does not the suffocating in thee 
of poor Bell’s holy claims, does not that involve for thee un- 
ending misery ? And my truthful soul would echo — Unending 
misery ! Nay, nay, nay. Thou art my sister and I am thy 
brother ; and that part of the world which knows me, shall 
acknowledge thee ; or by heaven I will crush the disdainful 
world down on its knees to thee, my sweet Isabel !” 

“ The menacings in thy eyes are dear delights to me ; I grow 
up with thy own glorious stature ; and in thee, my brother, I 
see God’s indignant embassador to me, saying — Up, up, Isabel, 
and take no terms from the common world, but do thou make 
terms to it, and grind thy fierce rights out of it ! Thy catch- 
ing nobleness unsexes me, my brother ; and now I know that 
in her most exalted moment, then woman no more feels the 
twin-born softness of her breasts, but feels chain-armor palpitat- 
ing there !” 

Her changed attitude of beautiful audacity ; her long scorn- 
ful hair, that trailed out a disheveled banner ; her wonderful 
transfigured eyes, in which some meteors seemed playing up ; 

K 


218 


PIERB E. 


all this now seemed to Pierre the work of an invisible enchan- 
ter. Transformed she stood before him ; and Pierre, bowing 
low over to her, owned that irrespective, darting majesty of hu- 
manity, which can be majestical and menacing in woman as 
in man. 

But her gentler sex returned to Isabel at last ; and she sat 
silent in the casement’s niche, looking out upon the soft ground- 
lightnings of the electric summer night. 


YI. 

Sadly smiling, Pierre broke the pause. 

“ My sister, thou art so rich, that thou must do me alms ; 
I am very hungry ; I have forgotten to eat since breakfast ; — 
and now thou shalt bring me bread and a cup of water, Isabel, 
ere I go forth from thee. Last night I went rummaging in a 
pantry, like a bake-house burglar ; but to-night thou and I must 
sup together, Isabel ; for as we may henceforth live together, let 
us begin forthwith to eat in company.” 

Isabel looked up at him, with sudden and deep emotion, then 
all acquiescing sweetness, and silently left the room. 

As she returned, Pierre, casting his eyes toward the ceiling, 
said — “ She is quiet now, the pacing hath entirely ceased.” 

“ Not the beating, tho’ ; her foot hath paused, not her un- 
ceasing heart. My brother, she is not quiet now ; quiet for her 
hath gone ; so that the pivoted stillness of this night is yet a 
noisy madness to her.” 

“ Give me pen or pencil, and some paper, Isabel.” 

She laid down her loaf, and plate, and knife, and brought 
him pen, and ink, and paper. 

Pierre took the pen. 

“ Was this the one, dear Isabel 3” 


PIERRE. 


219 


“ It is the one, my brother ; none other is in this poor cot.” 

He gazed at it intensely. Then turning to the table, steadily 
wrote the following note : 

“ For Delly Ulver : with the deep and true regard and sympa- 
thy of Pierre Glendinning. 

“ Thy sad story — partly known before — hath now more fully 
come to me, from one who sincerely feels for thee, and who hath 
imparted her own sincerity to me. Thou desirest to quit this 
neighborhood, and be somewhere at peace, and find some seclu- 
ded employ fitted to thy sex and age. With this, I now will- 
ingly charge myself, and insure it to thee, so far as my utmost 
ability can go. Therefore — if consolation be not wholly spurned 
by thy great grief, which too often happens, though it be but 
griefs great folly so to feel — therefore, two true friends of thine 
do here beseech thee to take some little heart to thee, and be- 
think thee, that all thy life is not yet lived ; that Time hath 
surest healing in his continuous balm. Be patient yet a httle 
while, till thy future lot be disposed for thee, through our best 
help ; and so, know me and Isabel thy earnest friends and true- 
hearted lovers.” 

He handed the note to Isabel. She read it silently, and put 
it down, and spread her two hands over him, and with one 
motion lifted her eyes toward Delly and toward God. ‘ 

“ Thou think’st it will not pain her to receive the note, Isabel ? 
Thou know’st best. I thought, that ere our help do really 
reach her, some promise of it now might prove slight comfort. 
But keep it, and do as thou think’st best.” 

“ Then straightway will I give it her, my brother,” said Isabel 
quitting him. 

An infixing stillness, now thrust a long rivet through the 
night, and fast nailed it to that side of the world. And alone 
again in such an houi*, Pierre could not but listen. He heard 


220 


PIERRE. 


Isabel’s step on the stair ; then it approached him from above ; 
then he heard a gentle knock, and thought he heard a rustling, 
as of paper slid over a threshold underneath a door. Then 
another advancing and opposite step tremblingly met Isabel’s ; 
and then both steps stepped from each other, and soon Isabel 
came back to him. 

“ Thou did’st knock, and slide it underneath the door ?” 

“Yes, and she hath it now. Hark! a sobbing! Thank 
God, long arid gi’ief hath found a tear at last. Pity, sympathy 
hath done this. — Pierre, for thy dear deed thou art already 
sainted, ere thou be dead.” 

“ Do saints hunger, Isabel ?” said Pieire, striving to call her 
away from this. “ Come, give me the loaf ; but no, thou shalt 
help me, my sister. — Thank thee ; — this is twice over the bread 
of sweetness. — Is this of thine own making, Isabel ?” 

“ My own making, my brother.” 

“ Give me the cup ; hand it me with thine own hand. So : 
— Isabel, my heart and soul are now full of deepest reverence ; 
yet I do dare to call this the real sacrament of the supper. — 
"^at with me.” 

They eat together without a single word; and -without a 
single word, Pierre rose, and kissed her pure and spotless brow, 
and without a single word departed from the place. 


YII. 

We know not Pi§rre Glendinning’s thoughts as he gained 
the village and passed on beneath its often shrouding trees, and 
saw no light from man, and heard no sound from man, but 
only, by intervals, saw at his feet the soft ground-lightnings, 
snake-like, playing in and out among the blades of grass ; and 
between the trees, caught the far dim light from heaven, and 


PIERRE. 


221 


heard the far wide general hum of the sleeping but still 
breathing earth. 

He paused before a detached and pleasant house, with much 
shrubbery about it. He mounted the portico and knocked dis- 
tinctly there, just as the village clock struck one. He knocked, 
but no answer came. He knocked again, and soon he heard a 
sash thrown up in the second story, and an astonished voice in- 
quired who was there ? 

“ It is Pierre Glendinning, and he desires an instant interview 
with the Reverend Mr. Palsgrave.” 

“ Do I hear right ? — ^in heaven’s name, what is the matter, 
young gentleman 

“ Every thing is the matter ; the whole world is the matter. 
Will you admit me, sir ?” 

“Certainly — but I beseech thee — nay, stay, I will admit 
thee.” 

In quicker time than could have been anticipated, the door 
was opened to Pierre by Mr. Palsgrave in person, holding a 
candle, and invested in his very becoming student’s wrapper of 
Scotch plaid. 

“ Por heaven’s sake, what is the matter, Mr. Glendinning ?” 

“ Heaven and earth is the matter, sir ! shall we go up to the 
study 

“ Certainly, but — but — 

“ Well, let us proceed, then.” 

They went up-stairs, and soon found themselves in the cler- 
gyman’s retreat, and both sat down ; the amazed host still hold- 
ing the candle in his hand, and intently eying Pierre, with an 
apprehensive aspect. 

“ Thou art a man of God, sir, I believe.” 

“ I ? I ? I ? upon my word, Mr. Glendinning !” 

“ Yes, sir, the world calls thee a man of God. Now, what 
hast thou, the man of God, decided, with my mother, concern- 
ing Delly Ulver ?” 


222 


PIEREE. 


“ Delly Ulver ! why, why — what can this madness mean ?” 

“ It means, sir, what have thou and my mother decided con- 
cerning Delly Ulver.” 

“ She ? — Delly Ulver ? She is to depart the neighborhood ; 
why, her own parents want her not.” 

“ How is she to depart ? Who is to take her ? Ai't thou 
to take her ? Where is she to go ? Who has food for her ? 
Whfit is to keep her from the pollution to which such as she 
are every day driven to contribute, by the detestable uncharita- 
bleness and heartlessness of the world ?” 

“ Mr. Glendinning,” said the clergyman, now somewhat calm- 
ly putting down the candle, and folding himself with dignity 
in his gown; “Mr. Glendinning, I will not now make any 
mention of my natural astonishment at this most unusual call, 
and the most extraordinary time of it. Thou hast sought in- 
formation upon a certain point, and I have given it to thee, to 
the best of ray knowledge. All thy after and incidental ques- 
tions, I choose to have no answer for. I will be most happy 
to see thee at any other time, but for the present thou must 
excuse my presence. Good-night, sir.” 

But Pierre sat entirely still, and the clergyman could not but 
remain standing still. 

“ I perfectly comprehend the whole, sir. Delly Ulver, then, 
is to be driven out to starve or rot ; and this, too, by the acqui- 
escence of a man of God. Mr. Falsgi*ave, the subject of Delly, 
deeply interesting as it is to me, is only the preface to another, 
still more interesting to me, and concerning^ which I once cher- 
ished some slight hope that thou wouldst have been able, in 
thy Christian character, to sincerely and honestly counsel me. 
But a hint from heaven assures me now, that thou hast no 
earnest and world-disdaining counsel for me. I must seek it 
direct from God himself, whom, I now know, never delegates his 
holiest admonishings. But I do not blame thee; I think I 
begin to see how thy profession is unavoidably entangled by all 


PIE RBE. 


223 


fleshly alliances, and can not move with godly freedom in a 
world of benefices. I am more sorry than indignant. Pardon 
me for my most uncivil call, and know me as not thy enemy. 
Good-night, sir.” - 


BOOK IX. 


MORE LIGHT, AND THE GLOOM OF THAT LIGHT. MORE 
GLOOM, AND THE LIGHT OF THAT GLOOM, 


I. 

In those Hyperborean regions, to which enthusiastic Truth, 
and Earnestness, and Independence, will invariably lead a mind 
fitted by nature for profound and fearless thought, all objects 
are seen in a dubious, uncertain, and refracting light. Viewed 
through that rarefied atmosphere the most immemorially ad- 
mitted maxims of men begin to slide and fluctuate, and finally 
become wholly inverted ; the very heavens themselves being not 
innocent of producing this confounding effect, since it is mostly 
in the heavens themselves that these wonderful mirages are 
exhibited. 

But the example of many minds forever lost, hke undiscov- 
erable Arctic explorers, amid those treacherous regions, warns 
us entirely away from them ; and we learn that it is not for 
man to follow the trail of truth too far, since by so doing he 
entirely loses the directing compass of his mind ; for arrived at 
the Pole, to whose barrenness only it points, there, the needle 
indifferently respects all points of the horizon alike. 

But even the less distant regions of thought are not without 
their singular introversions. Hardly any sincere man of ordi- 
nary reflective powers, and accustomed to exercise them at all, 
but must have been independently struck by the thought, that, 


PIEERE. 


225 


after all, what is so enthusiastically applauded as the march of 
mind, — meaning the inroads of Truth into Error — which has 
ever been regarded by hopeful persons as the one fundamental 
thing most earnestly to be prayed for as the greatest possible 
Cathohc blessing to the world; — almost every thinking man 
must have been some time or other struck with the idea, that, 
in certain respects, a tremendous mistake may be lurking here, 
since all the world does never gregariously advance to Truth, 
but only here and there some of its individuals do ; and by ad- 
vancing, leave the rest behind ; cutting themselves forever adrift 
from their sympathy, and making themselves always liable to 
be regarded with distrust, dislike, and often, downright — 
though, ofttimes, concealed — fear and hate. What wonder, 
then, that those advanced minds, which in spite of advance, 
happen still to remain, for the time, ill-regulated, should now 
and then be goaded into turning round in acts of wanton aggi*es- 
sion upon sentiments and opinions now forever left in their 
rear. Certain it is, that in their earlier stages of advance, es- 
pecially in youthful minds, as yet untranquilized by long habit- 
uation to the world as it inevitably and eternally is ; this aggres- 
siveness is almost invariably manifested, and as invariably af- 
terward deplored by themselves. 

That amazing shock of practical truth, which in the compass 
of a very few days and hours had not so much advanced, as 
magically transplanted the youthful mind of Pierre far beyond 
all common discernments ; it had not been entirely unattended 
by the lamentable rearward aggressiveness we have endeavored 
to portray above. Yielding to that unwarrantable mood, he 
had invaded the profound midnight slumbers of the Reverend 
Mr. Palsgrave, and most discourteously made war upon that 
really amiable and estimable person. But as through the 
strange force of circumstances his advance in insight had been 
so surprisingly rapid, so also was now his advance in some sorl 
of wisdom, in charitableness; and his concluding words to Mr 


226 


PIERRE. 


Falsgrave, sufficiently evinced that already, ere quitting that 
gentleman’s study, he had begun to repent his ever entering it 
on such a mission. 

And as he now walked on in the profound meditations in- 
duced by the hour ; and as all that was in him stirred to and 
fro, intensely agitated by the ever-creative fire of enthusiastic 
earnestness, he became fully alive to many palliating considera- 
tions, which had they previously occurred to him would have 
peremptorily forbidden his impulsive intrusion upon the re- 
spectable clergyman. 

But it is through the malice of this earthly air, that only by 
being guilty of Folly does mortal man in many cases arrive at 
the perception of Sense. A thought which should forever free 
us from hasty imprecations upon our ever-recurring intervals of 
Folly ; since though Folly be our teacher. Sense is the lesson 
she teaches; since if Folly wholly depart from us, Further 
Sense will be her companion in the flight, and we will be left 
standing midway in wisdom. For it is only the miraculous 
vanity of man which ever pei*suades him, that even for the most 
richly gifted mind, there ever arrives an earthly period, where 
it can truly say to itself, I have come to the Ultimate of Human 
Speculative Knowledge ; hereafter, at this present point I will 
abide. Sudden onsets of new truth will assail him, and over- 
turn him as the Tartars did China ; for there is no China Wall 
that man can build in his soul, which shall permanently stay 
the irruptions of those barbarous hordes which Truth ever 
nourishes in the loins of her frozen, yet teeming North ; so 
that the Empire of Human Knowledge can never be lasting in 
any one dynasty, since Truth still gives new Emperors to the 
earth. 

But the thoughts we here indite as Pierre’s are to be very 
carefully discriminated from those we indite concerning him. 
Ignorant at this time of the ideas concerning the reciprocity 
and partnership of Folly and Sense, in contributing to the men- 


PIERRE. 


227 


tal and moral growth of the mind ; Pierre keenly upbraided 
his thoughtlessness, and began to stagger in his soul ; as dis- 
trustful of that radical change in his general sentiments, which 
had thus hurried him into a glaring impropriety and folly ; as 
distrustful of himself, the. most wretched distrust of all. But 
this last distrust was not of the heart ; for heaven itself, so he 
felt, had sanctified that with its blessing ; but it was the distrust 
of his intellect, which in undisciplinedly espousing the manly 
enthusiast cause of his heart, seemed to cast a reproach upon 
that cause itself. 

But though evermore hath the earnest heart an eventual 
balm for the most deplorable error of the head ; yet in the in- 
terval small alleviation is to be had, and the whole man droops 
into nameless melancholy. Then it seems as though the most 
magnanimous and virtuous resolutions were only intended for 
fine spiritual emotions, not as mere preludes to their bodily 
translation into acts ; since in essaying their embodiment, 
we have but proved ourselves miserable bunglers, and there- 
upon taken ignominious shame to ourselves. Then, too, the 
never-entirely repulsed hosts of Commonness, and Conven- 
tionalness, and Worldly Prudent-mindedness return to the 
charge ; press hard on the faltering soul ; and with inhuman 
hootings deride all its nobleness as mere eccentricity, which 
further wisdom and experience shall assuredly cure. The man 
is as seized by arms and legs, and convulsively pulled either 
way by his own indecisions and doubts. Blackness advances 
her banner over this cruel altercation, and he droops and swoons 
beneath its folds. 

It was precisely in this mood of mind that, at about two in 
the morning, Pierre, with a hanging head, now crossed the pri- 
vate threshold of the Mansion of Saddle Meadows. 


228 


PI ERKE. 


II. 

In the profoundly silent heart of a house full of sleeping 
serving-men and maids, Pierre now sat in his chamber before 
his accustomed round table, still tossed with the books and the 
papers which, three days before, he had abruptly left, for a sud- 
den and more absorbing object. Uppermost and most con- 
spicuous among the books were the Inferno of Dante, and the 
Hamlet of Shakspeare. 

His mind was wandering and vague ; his arm wandered and 
was vague. Soon he found tbe open Inferno in his hand, and 
his eye met the following lines, allegorically ovei-scribed within 
the arch of the outgoings of the womb of human life : 

“ Through me you pass into the city of Woe ; 

Through me you pass into eternal pain ; 

Through me, among the people lost for aye. 

* * * * * 

All hope abandon, ye who enter here.” 

He dropped the fatal volume from his hand ; he dropped his 
fated head upon his chest. 

His mind was wandering and vague;, his arm wandered and 
was vague. Some moments passed, and he found the open 
Hanalet in his hand, and his eyes met the following lines ; 

“ The time is out of joint Oh cursed spite. 

That ever I was horn to set it right !” 

He dropped the too true volume from his hand ; his petrify- 
ing heart dropped hollowly within him, as a pebble down Car- 
risbrook well. 


PIERRE. 


229 


in. 

The man Dante Alighieri received unforgivable affronts and 
insults from the world ; and the poet Dante Alighieri be- 
queathed his immortal curse to it, in the sublime malediction 
of the Inferno. The fiery tongue whose political forkings lost 
him the solacements of this world, found its malicious counter- 
part in that muse of fire, which would forever bar the vast bulk 
of mankind from all solacement in the worlds to come. For- 
tunately for the felicity of the Dilletante in Literature, the hor- 
rible allegorical meanings of the Inferno, lie not on the surface ; 
but unfortunately for the earnest and youthful piercers into truth 
and reality, those horrible meanings, when first discovered, in- 
fuse their poison into a spot previously unprovided with that sov- 
ereign antidote of a sense of uncapitulatable security, which is only 
the possession of the furthest advanced and profoundest souls. 

Judge ye, then, ye Judicious, the mood of Pierre, so far as 
the passage in Dante touched him. 

K among the deeper significances of its pervading indefi- 
niteness, which significances are wisely hidden from all but the 
rarest adepts, the pregnant tragedy of Hamlet convey any one 
particular moral at all fitted to the ordinary uses of man, it is 
this : — that all meditation is worthless, unless it prompt to ac- 
tion ; that it is not for man to stand shillyshallying amid the 
conflicting invasions of surrounding impulses ; that in the ear- 
liest instant of conviction, the roused man must strike, and, if 
possible, with the precision and the force of the lightning-bolt. 

PieiTe had always been an admiring reader of Hamlet ; but ^ 
neither his age nor his mental experience thus far, had qualified 
him either to catch initiating glimpses into the hopeless gloom 
of its interior meaning, or to draw from the general story those 
superficial and purely incidental lessons, wherein the painstaking 
moralist so complacently expatiates. 


230 


PIERR E. 


The intensest light of reason and revelation combined, can 
not shed such blazonings upon the deeper truths in man, as 
will sometimes proceed from his own profoundest gloom. Ut- 
ter darkness is then his light, and cat-like he distinctly sees all 
objects through a medium which is mere blindness to common 
vision. Wherefore have Gloom and Grief been celebrated of 
old as the selectest chamberlains to knowledge ? Wherefore is 
it, that not to know Gloom and Grief is not to know aught 
that an heroic man should learn ? 

By the light of that gloom, Pierre now turned over the soul 
of Hamlet in his hand. He knew not — at least, felt not — then, 
that Hamlet, though a thing of life, was, after all, but a thing 
of breath, evoked by the wanton magic of a creative hand, and as 
wantonly dismissed at last into endless halls of hell and night. 

It is the not impartially bestowed privilege of the more final 
insights, that at the same moment they reveal the depths, they 
do, sometimes, also reveal — though by no means so distinctly — 
some answering heights. But when only midway down the 
gulf, its crags wholly conceal the upper vaults, and the wan- 
derer thinks it all one gulf of downward dark. 

Judge ye, then, ye Judicious, the mood of Pierre, so far as 
the passage in Hamlet touched him. 


lY. 

Torn into a hundred shreds the printed pages of Hell and 
Hamlet lay at his feet, which trampled them, while their vacant 
covere mocked him with their idle titles. Dante had made him 
fierce, and Hamlet had insinuated that there was none to sti’ike. 
Dante had taught him that he had bitter cause of quarrel ; 
Hamlet taunted him with faltering in the fight. Now he began 
to curse anew his fate, for now he began to see that after all he 


PIERRE. 


231 


had been finely juggling with himself, and postponing with him- 
self, and in meditative sentimentalities wasting the moments 
consecrated to instant action. 

Eight-and-forty hours and more had passed. Was Isabel 
acknowledged? Had she yet hung on his public arm ? Who 
knew yet of Isabel but Pierre ? Like a skulking coward he had 
gone prowling in the woods by day, and like a skulking coward 
he had stolen to her haunt by night ! Like a thief he had sat 
and stammered and turned pale before his mother, and in the 
cause of Holy Right, permitted a woman to grow tall and hec- 
tor over him ! Ah ! Easy for man to think like a hero ; but 
hard for man to act like one. All imaginable audacities readily 
enter into the soul ; few come boldly forth from it. 

Did he, or did he not vitally mean to do this thing ? Was 
the immense stuff to do it his, or was it not his ? Why defer ? 
Why put off ? What was there to be gained by deferriug and 
putting off" ? His resolution had been taken, why was it not 
executed ? What more was there to learn ? What more which 
was essential to the pub*lic acknowledgment of Isabel, had re- 
mained to be learned, after his fii-st glance at her first letter ? 
Had doubts of her identity come over him to stay him ? — Hone 
at all. Against the wall of the thick darkness of the mystery 
of Isabel, recorded as by some phosphoric finger was the burn - 
ing fact, that Isabel was his sister. Why then ? How then ? 
Whence then this utter nothing of bis acts ? Did he stagger at 
the thought, that at the first announcement to his mother con- 
cerning Isabel, and his resolution to own her boldly and lov- 
ingly, his proud mother, spurning the reflection on his father, 
would likewise spurn Pierre and Isabel, and denounce both him 
and her, and hate them both alike, as unnatural accomplices 
against the good name of the purest of husbands and parents ? 
Hot at all. Such a thought was not in him. For had he not 
already resolved, that his mother should know nothing of the 
fact of Isabel ?— But how now ? What then ? How was Isa- 


282 


PIERRE. 


bel to be acknowledged to the world, if bis mother was to know 
nothing of that acknowledgment ? — Short-sighted, -miserable 
palterer and huckster, thou hast been pla3ring a most fond and 
foolish game with thyself ! Fool and coward ! Coward and 
fool ! Tear thyself open, and read there the confounding story 
of thy blind dotishness ! Thy two grand resolutions — the pub- 
lic acknowledgment of Isabel, and the charitable withholding 
of her existence from thy own mother, — these are impossible 
adjuncts. — Likewise, thy so magnanimous purpose to screen thy 
father’s honorable memory from reproach, and thy other inten- 
tion, the open vindication of thy fraternalness to Isabel, — these 
also are impossible adjuncts. And the having individually en- 
tertained four such resolves, without perceiving that once 
brought together, they all mutually expire ; this, this ineffable 
folly, Pierre, brands thee in the forehead for an unaccountable 
infatuate ! 

Well may’st thou distrust thyself, and curse thyself, and tear 
thy Hamlet and thy Hell ! Oh ! fool, blind fool, and a million 
times an ass ! Go, go, thou poor and feeble one ! High deeds 
are not for such blind grubs as thou ! Quit Isabel, and go to 
Lucy ! Beg humble pardon of thy mother, and hereafter be a 
more obedient and good boy to her, Pierre — Pierre, Pierre, — 
infatuate ! 

Impossible would it be now to tell all the confusion and con- 
foundings in the soul of Pierre, so soon as the above absurdities 
in his mind presented themselves first to his combining con- 
sciousness. He would fain have disowned the very memory 
and the mind which produced to him such an immense scan- 
dal upon his common sanity. Now indeed did all the fiery 
floods in the Inferno, and all the rolling gloom in Hamlet suf- 
focate him at once in flame and smoke. The cheeks of his soul 
collapsed in him : he dashed himself in blind fury and swift 
madness against the wall, and fell dabbling in the vomit of his 
loathed identity. 


BOOK X. 


THE UNPRECEDENTED FINAL RESOLUTION OF PIERRE. 


I. 

Glorified be bis gi’acious memory who first said, The deep- 
est gloom precedes the day. We care not whether the say- 
ing will prove true to the utmost bounds of things ; sufficient 
that it sometimes does hold true within the bounds of earthly 
finitude. 

Next morning Pierre rose from the floor of his chamber, hag- 
gard and tattered in body from his past night’s utter misery, 
but stoically serene and symmetrical in soul, with the foretaste 
of what then seemed to him a planned and perfect Future. 
Now he thinks he knows that the wholly unanticipated storm 
which had so terribly burst upon him, had yet burst upon him 
for his good ; for the place, which in its undetected incipiency, 
the storm had obscurely occupied in hk soul, seemed now clear 
sky to him ; and all his horizon seemed distinctly commanded 
by him. 

His resolution was a strange and extraordinary one ; but 
therefore it only the better met a strange and extraordinary 
emergency. But it was not only strange and extraordinary in 
its novelty of mere aspect, but it was wonderful in its unequaled 
renunciation of himself. 

From the fii’st, determined at all hazards to hold his father’s 


234 


PI EKEE. 


fair fame inviolate from any thing he should do in reference to 
protecting Isabel, and extending to her a brother’s utmost de- 
votedness and love ; and equally determined not to shake his 
mother’s lasting peace by any useless exposure of unwelcome 
facts ; and yet vowed in his deepest soul some way to embrace 
Isabel before the world, and 3deld to her his constant consola- 
tion and companionship ; and finding no possible mode of 
unitedly compassing all these ends, without a most singular act 
of pious imposture, which he thought all heaven would justify 
in him, since he himself was to be the grand self-renouncing 
victim ; therefore, this was his settled and immovable purpose 
now ; namely : to assume before the world, that by secret rites, 
Pierre Glendinning was already become the husband of Isabel 
Banford — an assumption which would entirely warrant his 
dwelling in her continual company, and upon equal terms, tak- 
ing her wherever the world admitted him ; and at the same 
time foreclose all sinister inquisitions bearing upon his deceased 
parent’s memory, or any way afiecting his mother’s lasting 
peace, as indissolubly linked with that. True, he in embryo, 
foreknew, that the extraordinary thing he had resolved, would, 
in another way, indirectly though inevitably, dart a most keen 
pang into his mother’s heart ; but this then seemed to him 
part of the unavoidable vast price of his enthusiastic virtue ; 
and, thus minded, rather would he privately pain his living 
mother with a wound that might be curable, than cast world- 
wide and irremediable dishonor — so it seemed to him — upon 
his departed father. 

Probably no other being than Isabel could have produced 
upon Pierre impressions powerful enough to eventuate in a final 
resolution so unparalleled as the above. But the wonderful 
melodiousness of her grief had touched the secret monochord 
within his breast, by an apparent magic, precisely similar to 
that which had moved the stringed tongue of her guitar to re- 
spond to the heart-strings of her own melancholy plaints. The 


PIERRE. 


235 


deep voice of the being of Isabel called to him fi-om out the 
immense distances of sky and air, and there seemed no veto of 
the earth that could forbid her heavenly claim. 

During the three days that he had personally known her, 
and so been brought into magnetic contact with her, other per- 
suasions and potencies than those direct ones, involved in her 
bewildering eyes and marvelous story, had unconsciously left 
their ineffaceable impressions on him, and perhaps without his 
privity, had mainly contributed to his resolve. She had im- 
pressed him as the glorious child of Pride and Grief, in whose 
countenance were traceable the divinest lineaments of both her 
parents. Pride gave to her her nameless nobleness; Grief 
touched that nobleness with an angelical softness ; and again 
that softness was steeped in a most charitable humility, which 
was the foundation of her loftiest excellence of all. 

Neither by word or letter had Isabel betrayed any spark of 
those more common emotions and desires which might not un- 
reasonably be ascribed to an ordinary person placed in circum- 
stances like hers. Though almost penniless, she had not in- 
voked the pecuniary bounty of Pierre ; and though she was 
altogether silent on that subject, yet Pierre could not but be 
strangely sensible of something in her which disdained to vol- 
untarily hang upon the mere bounty even of a brother. Nor, 
though she by various nameless ways, manifested her conscious- 
ness of being surrounded by uncongenial and inferior beings, 
while yet descended from a generous stock, and personally 
meriting the most refined companionships which the wide world 
could yield; nevertheless, she had not demanded of Pierre 
that he should array her in brocade, and lead her forth among 
the rare and opulent ladies of the land. But 'while thus evinc- 
ing her intuitive, true lady-likeness and nobleness by this entire 
freedom from all sordid motives, neither had she merged all 
her feelings in any sickly sentimentalities of sisterly affection 
toward her so suddenly discovered brother ; which, in the case 


236 


PIERRE. 


of a naturally unattractive woman in her circumstances, would 
not have been altogether alluring to Pierre. No. That in- 
tense and indescribable longmg, which her letter by its veiy 
incoherencies had best embodied, proceeded from no base, vain, 
or ordinary motive whatever ; but was the unsuppressible and 
unmistakable ciy of the godhead through her soul, command- 
ing Pierre to fly to her, and do his highest and most glorious 
duty in the world. 

Nor now, as it changedly seemed to Pierre, did that duty 
consist in stubbornly flying in the marble face of the Past, and 
striving to reverse the decree which had pronounced that Isabel 
could never perfectly inherit all the privileges of a legitimate 
child of her father. And thoroughly now he felt, that even as 
this would in the present case be both preposterous in itself 
and cruel in eflfect to both the living and the dead, so was it 
entirely undesired by Isabel, who though once yielding to a 
momentary burst of aggressive enthusiasm, yet in her more 
wonted mood of mournfulness and sweetness, evinced no such 
lawless wandering. Thoroughly, now he felt, that Isabel was 
content to live obscure in her paternal identity, so long as she 
could any way appease her deep longings for the constant love 
and sympathy and close domestic contact of some one of her 
blood. So that Pierre had no slightest misgiving that upon 
learning the character of his scheme, she would deem it to 
come short of her natural expectations ; while so far as its 
apparent strangeness was concerned, — a strangeness, perhaps 
invincible to squeamish and. humdrum women — here Pierre 
anticipated no obstacle in Isabel; for her whole past w^as 
strange, and strangeness seemed best befitting to her future. 

But had Pierre now reread the opening paragraph of her 
letter to him, he might have very quickly derived a powerful 
anticipative objection from his sister, which his own complete 
disinterestedness concealed from him. Though Pierre had 
every reason to believe that — owing to her secluded and hum* 


P I E R EE. 


237 


ble life — Isabel was in entire ignorance of tbe fact of his pre- 
cise relation to Lucy Tartan : — an ignorance, whose first indirect 
and unconscious manifestation in Isabel, had been unspeakably 
welcome to him ; — and though, of course, he had both wisely 
and benevolently abstained from enlightening her on that 
point; still, notwithstanding this, was it possible that any true- 
hearted, noble girl like Isabel, would, to benefit herself, willingly 
become a participator in an act, which would prospectively and 
forever bar the blessed boon of marriageable love from one so 
young and generous as Pierre, and eternally entangle him in 
a fictitious alliance, which, though in reality but a web of air, 
yet in efiect would prove a wall of iron ; for the same powerful 
motive which induced the thought of forming such an alliance, 
would always thereafter forbid that tacit exposure of its 
fictitiousness, which would be consequent upon its public dis- 
continuance, and the real nuptials of Pierre with any other 
being during the lifetime of Isabel. 

But according to what view you take of it, it is either the 
gi-acious or the malicious gift of the great gods to man, that on 
the threshold of any wholly new and momentous devoted enter- 
prise, the thousand ulterior intricacies and emperilings to which 
it must conduct; these, at the outset, are mostly withheld from 
sight ; and so, through her ever-primeval wilderness Fortune’s 
Knight rides on, alike ignorant of the palaces or the pitfalls in 
its heart. Surprising, and past all ordinary belief, are those 
strange oversights and inconsistencies, into which the enthusi- 
astic meditation upon unique or extreme resolves will some- 
times beget in young and over-ardent souls. That all-compre- 
hending oneness, that calm representativeness, by which a steady 
philosophic mind reaches forth and draws to itself, in their col- 
lective entirety, the objects of its contemplations ; that pertains 
not to the young enthusiast. By his eagerness, all objects are 
deceptively foreshortened ; by his intensity each object is viewed 
as detached ; so that essentially and relatively every thing is 


238 


PIEERE. 


misseen by him. Already have we exposed that passing pre- 
posterousness in Pierre, which by reason of the above-named 
cause which we have endeavored to portray, induced him to 
cherish for a time four unitedly impossible designs. And now 
we behold this hapless youth all eager to involve himself in 
such an inextricable twist of Fate, that the three dextrous 
maids themselves could hardly disentangle him, if once he tie 
the complicating knots about him and Isabel. 

Ah,, thou rash boy ! are there no couriers in the air to warn 
thee away from these emperilings, and point thee to those Cre- 
tan labyrinths, to which thy life’s cord is leading thee ? Where 
now are the high beneficences ? Whither fled the sweet angels 
that are alledged guardians to man ? 

Not that the impulsive Pierre wholly overlooked all that was 
menacing to him in his future, if now he acted out his most 
rare resolve ; but eagerly foreshortened by him, they assumed 
not their full magnitude of menacing ; nor, indeed, — so riveted 
now his purpose — were they pushed up to his face, would he 
for that renounce his self-renunciation ; while concerning all 
things more immediately contingent upon his central resolu- 
tion ; these were, doubtless, in a measure, foreseen and under- 
stood by him. Perfectly, at least, he seemed to foresee and 
understand, that the present hope of Lucy Tartap must be 
banished from his being ; that this would carry a terrible pang 
to her, which in the natural recoil would but redouble his own ; 
that to the world all his heroicness, standing equally unex- 
plained and unsuspected, therefore the world would denounce 
him as infamously false to his beti’othed ; reckless of the most 
binding human vows ; a secret wooer and wedder of an un- 
known and enigmatic girl ; a spurner of all a loving mother’s 
wisest counselings ; a bringer down of lasting reproach upon an 
honorable name ; a besotted self-exile from a most prosperous 
house and bounteous fortune ; and lastly, that now his whole 
life would, in the eyes of the wide humanity, be covered with 


PIERRE. 


.289 


an all-pervading haze of incurable sinistemess, possibly not to 
be removed even in the concluding hour of death. 

Such, oh thou son of man ! are the perils and the miseries 
thou callest down on thee, when, even in a virtuous cause, thou 
steppest aside from those arbitrary lines of conduct, by which 
the common world, however base and dastardly, surrounds thee 
for thy worldly good. 

Ofttimes it is very wonderful to trace the rarest and pro- 
foundest things, and find their probable origin in something 
extremely trite or trivial. Yet so strange and complicate is the 
human soul ; so much is confusedly evolved from out itself, 
and such vast and varied accessions come to it from abroad, 
and so impossible is it always to distinguish between these two, 
that the wisest man were rash, positively to assign the precise 
and incipient origination of his final thoughts and acts. Far as 
we blind moles can see, man’s life seems but an acting upon 
mysterious hints ; it is somehow hinted to us, to do thus or 
thus. For surely no mere mortal who has at all gone down 
into himself will ever pretend that his slightest thought or act 
solely originates in his own defined identity. This preamble 
seems not entirely unnecessary as usher of the strange conceit, 
that possibly the latent germ of Pierre’s proposed extraordinary 
mode of executing his proposed extraordinary resolve — namely, 
the nominal conversion of a sister into a wife — might have 
been found in the previous conversational conversion of a 
mother into a sister ; for hereby he had habituated his voice 
and manner to a certain fictitiousness in one of the closest do- 
mestic relations of life ; and since man’s moral texture is very 
porous, and things assumed upon the surface, at last strike in 
— hence, this outward habituation to the above-named ficti- 
tiousness had insensibly disposed his mind to it as it were ; but 
only innocently and pleasantly as yet. If, by any possibility, 
this general conceit be so, then to Pierre the times of sportful- 
ness were as pregnant with the hours of earnestness ; and in 
sport he learnt the terms of woe. 


240 . 


P I E RRE. 


II. 

If next to that resolve concerning his lasting fraternal succor 
to Isabel, there was at this present time any determination in 
Pierre absolutely inflexible, and partaking at once of the sacred- 
ness and the indissolubleness of the most solemn oath, it was 
the enthusiastic, and apparently wholly supererogatory resolu- 
tion to hold his father’s memory untouched ; nor to one single 
being in the world reveal the paternity of Isabel. Unrecall- 
ably dead and gone from out the living world, again returned 
to utter helplessness, so far as this world went ; his perished 
father seemed to appeal to the dutifulness and mercifulness of 
Pierre, in terms far more moving than though the accents pro- 
ceeded from his mortal mouth. And what though not through 
the sin of Pierre, but through his father’s sin, that father’s fair 
fame now lay at the mercy of the son, and could only be kept 
inviolate by the son’s free sacrifice of all earthly felicity ; — 
what if this were so ? It but struck a still loftier chord in the 
bosom of the son, and filled him with infinite magnanimities. 
Never had the generous Pierre cherished the heathenish con- 
ceit, that even in the general world. Sin is a fair object to be 
stretched on the cruelest racks by self-complacent Virtue, that 
self-complacent Virtue may feed her lily-liveredness on the 
pallor of Sin’s anguish. For perfect Virtue does not more 
loudly claim our approbation, than repented Sin in its conclud- 
edness does demand our utmost tenderness and concern. And 
as the more immense the Virtue, so should be the more im- 
mense our approbation ; likewise the more immense the Sin, 
the more infinite our pity. In some sort, Sin bath its sacred- 
ness, not less than holiness. And gi’eat Sin calls forth more 
magnanimity than small Virtue. "What man, who is a man, 
does not feel livelier and more generous emotions toward the 
great god of Sin — Satan, — than toward yonder haberdasher, 


PIERRE. 


241 


who only is a sinner in the small and entirely honorable way of 
trade ? 

Though Pierre profoundly shuddered at that impenetrable 
yet blackly significant nebulousness, which the wild story of 
Isabel threw around the early life of his father ; yet as he re- 
called the dumb anguish of the invocation of the empty and 
the ashy hand uplifted from his father’s death -bed, he most 
keenly felt that of whatsoever unknown shade his father’s guilt 
might be, yet in the final hour of death it had been most dis- 
mally repented of ; by a repentance only the more full of utter 
wretchedness, that it was a consuming secret in him. Mince 
the matter how his family would, had not his father died a 
raver ? Whence that raving, following so prosperous a life ? 
Whence, but from the cruelest compunctions ? 

Touched thus, and stning in all his sinews and his nerves to 
the holding of his father’s memory intact,— Pierre turned his 
confronting and unfrightened face toward Lucy lartan, and 
stilly vowed that not even she should know the whole 5 no, not 
know the least. 

There is an inevitable keen cruelty in the loftier heroism. It 
is not heroism only to stand unflinched ourselves in the hour of 
suflbring ; but it is heroism to stand unflinched both at our own 
and at some loved one’s united suffering ; a united suffering, which 
we could put an instant period to, if we would but renounce the 
glorious cause for which ourselves do bleed, and see our most 
loved one bleed. If he would not reveal his father’s shame to 
the common world, whose favorable opinion for himself Pierre 
now despised ; how then reveal it to the woman he adored ? 
To her, above all others, would he now uncover his father’s 
tomb, and bid her behold from what vile attaintiugs he himself 
had sprung ? So Pierre turned round and tied Lucy to the 
same stake which must hold himself, for he too plainly saw, 
that it could not be, but that both their hearts must bum. 

Yes his resolve concerning his father’s memoiy involved the 

L 


242 


PIERKE. 


necessity of assuming even to Lucy his marriage with Isabel. 
Here he could not explain himself, even to her. This would 
aggravate the sharp pang of parting, by self-suggested, though 
wholly groundless surmising in Lucy’s mind, in the most miser- 
able degree contaminating to her idea of him. But on this 
point, he still fondly trusted that without at all marring his 
filial bond, he would be enabled by some significant intimations 
to arrest in Lucy’« mind those darker imaginings which might 
find entrance there ; and if he could not set her wholly right, 
yet prevent her from gohig wildly wrong. 

For his mother Pierre w^ more prepared. He considered 
that by an inscrutable decree, which it was but foolishness to 
try to evade, or shun, or deny existence to, since he felt it so 
profoundly pressing on his inmost soul ; the family of the Glen- 
dinnings was imperiously called upon to offer up a victim to the 
gods of woe ; one grand victim at the least ; and that grand 
victim must be his mother, or himself. If he disclosed his 
secret to the world, then his mother was made the victim • if at 
all hazards he kept it to himself, then himself would be the vic- 
tim. A victim as respecting his mother, because under the pe- 
culiar circumstances of the case, the non-disclosure of the secret 
involved her entire and infamy-engendering misconception of 
himself. But to this he bowed submissive. 

One other thing — and the last to be here named, because the 
very least in the conscious thoughts of Pierre ; one other thing 
remained to menace him with assured disastrousness. This 
thing it was, which though but dimly hinted of as yet, still in 
the apprehension must have exerted a powerful influence upon 
Pierre, in preparing him for the worst. 

His father’s last and fatal sickness had seized him suddenly. 
Both the probable concealed distraction of his mind with 
reference to his early life as recalled to him in an evil hour, 
and his consequent mental wanderings ; these, with other 
reasons, had prevented him from framing a new will to super- 


PIERRE. 


243 


sede one made shortly after his maniage, and ere Pierre was 
born. By that will which as yet had never been dragged into 
the courts of law ; and which, in the fancied security of her 
own and her son’s congenial and loving future, Mrs. Glendin- 
ning had never but once, and then inconclusively, offered to 
discuss, with a view to a better and more appropriate ordering 
of things to meet circumstances non-existent at the period the 
testament was framed ; by that will, all the Glendinning prop- 
erty was declared his mother’s. 

Acutely sensible to those prophetic intimations in him, which 
painted in advance the haughty temper of his offended mother, 
as all bitterness and scorn toward a son, once the object of her 
proudest joy, but now become a deep reproach, as not only re- 
bellious to her, but glaringly dishonorable before the world ; 
Pierre distinctly foresaw, that as she never would have permit- 
ted Isabel Banford in her true character to cross her threshold ; 
neither would she now permit Isabel Banford to cross her 
threshold in any other, and disguised character ; least of all, as 
that unknown and insidious girl, who by some pernicious arts 
had lured her only son from honor into infamy. But not to 
admit Isabel, was now to exclude Pierre, if indeed on indepen- 
dent grounds of exasperation against himself, his mother would 
not cast him out. 

Nor did the same interior intimations in him which fore- 
painted the above bearing of his mother, abstain to trace he 
whole haughty heart as so unrelentingly set against him, that 
while she would close her doors against both him and his ficti- 
tious wife, so also she would not willingly contribute one cop- 
per to support them in a supposed union so entirely abhorrent 
to her. And though Pierre was not so fiimiliar with the science 
of the law, as to be quite certain what the law, if appealed to 
concerning the provisions of his father’s will, would decree con- 
cerning any possible claims of the son to share with the mother 
in the property of the sire ; yet he prospectively felt an invinci- 


244 


PI EBEE. 


ble repugnance to dragging his dead father’s hand and seal 
into open Court, and fighting over them with a base mercenary 
motive, and with his own mother for the antagonist. For so 
thoroughly did his infaUible presentiments paint his mother’s 
character to him, as operated upon and disclosed in all those 
fiercer traits, — hitherto held in abeyance by the mere chance 
and felicity of circumstances, — that he felt assured that her ex- 
asperation against him would even meet the test of a public 
legal contention concerning the Glendinning property. For 
indeed there was a reserved strength and masculineness in the 
character of his mother, from which on all these points Pierre 
had every thing to dread. Besides, will the matter how he 
would, Pierre for nearly two whole years to come, would still 
remain a minor, an infant in the eye of the law, incapable of 
personally asserting any legal claim ; and though he might sue 
by his next friend, yet who would be his voluntary next friend, 
when the execution of his great resolve would, for him, depop- 
ulate all the world of friends ? 

Now to all these things, and many more, seemed the soul of 
this infatuated young enthusiast braced. 


III. 

There is a dark, mad mystery in some human hearts, which, 
sometimes, during the tyranny of a usurper mood, leads them 
to be all eagerness to cast off the most intense beloved bond, 
as a hindrance to the attainment of whatever transcendental 
object that usurper mood so tyrannically suggests. Then the 
beloved bond seems to hold us to no essential good ; lifted to 
exalted mounts, we can dispense with all the vale ; endearments 
we spurn ; kisses are blisters to us ; and forsaking the palpitat- 
ing forms of mortal love, we emptily embrace the boundless 


PIERRE. 


245 


and the unbodied air. We think we are not human ; we be- 
come as immortal bachelors and gods ; but again, like the Greek 
gods themselves, prone we descend to earth ; glad to be uxori- 
ous once more ; glad to hide these god-like heads within the 
bosoms made of too-seducing clay. 

Weary with the invariable earth, the restless sailor breaks 
from every enfolding arm, and puts to sea in height of tempest 
that blows oflf shore. But in long night-watches at the antip- 
odes, how heavily that ocean gloom lies in vast bales upon the 
deck ; thinking that that very moment in his deserted hamlet- 
home the household sun is high, and many a sun-eyed maiden 
meridian as the sun. He curses Fate ; himself he curses ; his 
senseless madness, which is himself. For whoso once has 
known this sweet knowledge, and then fled it ; in absence, to him 
the avenging dream will come. / 

Pierre was now this vulnerable god ; this self-upbraiding 
sailor ; this dreamer of the avenging dream. Though in some 
things he had unjuggled himself, and forced himself to eye the 
prospect as it was ; yet, so far as Lucy was concerned, he was 
at bottom still a juggler. True, in his extraordinary scheme, 
Lucy was so intimately interwoven, that it seemed impossible 
for him at all to cast his future without some way having that 
heart’s love in view. But ignorant of its quantity as yet, or 
fearful of ascertaining it ; like an algebraist, for the real Lucy 
he, in his scheming thoughts, had substituted but a sign — some 
empty x — and in the ultimate solution of the problem, that 
empty x still figured ; not the real Lucy. 

But now, when risen from the abasement of his chamber- 
floor, and risen from the still profounder prostration of his soul, 
Pierre had thought that all the horizon of his dark fate was 
commanded by him ; all his resolutions clearly defined, and im- 
movably decreed ; now finally, to top all, there suddenly slid 
into his inmost heart the living and breathing form of Lucy. 
His lungs collapsed ; his eyeballs glared * for the sweet ima- 


246 


PIEERE. 


gined form, so long buried alive in him, seemed now as gliding 
on him from the grave ; and her light hair swept far adown her 
shroud. 

Then, for the time, all minor things were whelmed in him ; 
his mother, Isabel, the whole wide world ; and one only thing 
remained to him ; — this all-including query — ^Lucy or God ? 

But here we draw a vail. Some nameless struggles of the 
soul can not be painted, and some woes will not be told. Let 
the ambiguous procession of events reveal their own ambigu- 
ousness. 


BOOK XI. 


HE CROSSES THE RUBICON. 


I. 

Sucked within the Maelstrom, man must go round. Strike 
at one end the longest conceivable row of billiard balls in close 
contact, and the furthermost ball will start forth, while all the 
rest stand still ; and yet that last ball was not struck at all. 
So, through long previous generations, whether of births or 
thoughts. Fate strikes the present man. Idly he disowns the 
blow’s effect, because he felt no blow, and indeed, received no 
blow. But Pien-e was not arguing Fixed Fate and Free Will, 
now ; Fixed Fate and Free Will were arguing him, and Fixed 
Fate got. the better in the debate. 

The peculiarities of those influences which on the night and 
early morning following the last interview with Isabel, per- 
suaded Pierre to the adoption of his final resolve, did now 
iiTesistibly impel him to a remarkable instantaneousness in his 
actions, even as before he had proved a lagger. 

Without being consciously that way pointed, through the 
desire of anticipating any objections on the part of Isabel to 
the assumption of a marriage between himself and her 5 Pierre 
was now impetuously hurried into an act, which should have 
the effective virtue of such an executed intention, without its 
corresponding motive. Because, as the primitive resolve so 


248 


P I Ellli E. 


deplorably involved Lucy, her image was then prominent in 
his mind ; and hence, because he felt all eagerness to hold her 
no longer in suspence, but by a certain sort of charity of 
cruelty, at once to pronounce to her her fate ; therefore, it was 
among his first final thoughts that morning to go to Lucy. 
And to this, undoubtedly, so trifling a circumstance as her 
being nearer to him, geographically, than Isabel, must have 
contributed some added, though unconscious influence, in his 
present fateful frame of mind. 

On the previous undetermined days, Pierre had solicitously 
sought to disguise his emotions from his mother, by a certain 
carefulness and choiceness in his dress. But now, since his 
veiy soul was forced to wear a mask, he would wear no paltiy 
palhatives and disguisements on his body. He went to the 
cottage of Lucy as disordered in his person, as haggard in his 
face. 


II. 

She was not risen yet. So, the strange imperious instan- 
taneousness in him, impelled hihi to go straight to her chamber- 
door, and in a voice of mild invincibleness, demand immediate 
audience, for the matter pressed. 

Already namelessly concerned and alarmed for her lover, 
now eight-and-forty hours absent on some mysterious and un- 
disclosable affair ; Lucy, at this surprising summons was over- 
whelmed with sudden terror ; and in oblivion of all ordinary 
proprieties, responded to Pierre’s call, by an immediate assent. 

Opening the door, he advanced slowly and deliberately 
toward her ; and as Lucy caught his pale determined figure, 
she gave a cry of groping misery, which knew not the pang 
that caused it, and lifted herself trembling in her bed ; but 
without uttering one word. 


PIERKE. 


249 


Pierre sat down on the bedside ; and his set eyes met her 
terrified and virgin aspect. 

“ Decked in snow-white, and pale of cheek, thou indeed art 
fitted for the altar ; but not that one of which thy fond heart 
did’st dream : — so fair a victim !” 

“ Pierre r 

“ ’Tis the last cruelty of tyrants to make their enemies slay 
each other.” 

“ My heart ! my heart I” 

“Nay; Lucy, I am married.” 

The girl was no more pale, but white as any leper ; the bed- 
clothes trembled to the concealed shudderings of all her hmbs ; 
one moment she sat looking vacantly into the blank eyes of 
Pierre, and then fell over toward him in a swoon. 

Swift madness mounted into the brain of Pierre ; all the 
past seemed as a di’eam, and all the present an unintelligible 
horror. He lifted her, and extended her motionless form upon 
the bed, and stamped for succor. The maid Martha came run- 
ning into the room, and beholding those two inexplicable fig- 
ures, shi-ieked, and turned in terror. But Pierre’s repeated cry 
rallied Martha from this, and darting out of the chamber, she 
returned with a sharp restorative, which at lenght brought Lucy 
back to life. 

“ Martha ! Martha !” now murmured Lucy, in a scarce audi- 
ble whispering, and shuddering in the maid’s own shuddering 
arms, “ quick, quick ; come to me— drive it away I wake me ! 
wake me !” 

“ Nay, pray God to sleep again,” cried Martha, bending over 
her and embracing her, and half-turning upon Pierre with a 
glance of loathing indignation. “ In God’s holy name, sir, what 
may this be ? How came you here ; accui-sed !” 

“ Accursed ? — ^it is well. Is she herself again, Martha 3” 

“ Thou hast somehow murdered her ; how then be herself 

L* 


250 


PIEERE. 


again ? My sweet mistress ! oh, my young mistress ! Tell 
me ! tell me !” and she bent low over her. 

Pierre now advanced toward the bed, making a gesture for 
the maid to leave them ; but soon as Lucy re-caught his hag- 
gard form, she whisperingly wailed again, “ Martha ! Martha ! 
di’ive it away ! — there — there ! him — ^him !” and shut her eyes 
convulsively, with arms abhorrently outstretched. 

“ Monster ! incomprehensible fiend !” cried the anew terror- 
smitten maid — “ depart ! See ! she dies away at the sight of 
thee — begone ! Wouldst thou murder her afresh ? ^feegone !” 

Starched and frozen by his own emotion, Pierre silently 
turned and quitted the chamber ; and heavily descending the 
stah’s, tramped heavily — as a man slowly bearing a great burden 
— through a long nan*ow passage leading to a wing in the rear 
of the cottage, and knocking at Miss Lanyllyn’s door, sum- 
moned her to Lucy, who, he briefly said, had fainted. Then, 
without waiting for any response, left the house, and went di- 
rectly to the mansion. 


III. 

“ Is my mother up yet ?” said he to Dates, whom he met in 
the hall. 

“ Not yet, sir ; — ^heavens, sir ! are you sick ?” 

“ To death ! Let me pass.” 

Ascending toward his mother’s chamber, he heard a com- 
ing step, and met her on the great middle landing of the stairs, 
where in an ample niche, a marble group of the temple-pollut- 
ing Laocoon and his two innocent children, caught in inextrica- 
ble snarls of snakes, writhed in eternal torments. 

“ Mother, go back with me to thy chamber.” 

She eyed his sudden presence with a dark but repressed fore- 


PIERRE. 


251 


boding ; drew herself up haughtily and repellingly, and with a 
quivering lip, said, “Pierre, thou thyself hast denied me thy 
confidence, and thou shalt not force me back to it so easily. 
Speak ! what is that now between thee and me ?” 

“ I am married, mother.” 

“ Great God I To whom ?” 

“ Not to Lucy Tartan, mother.” 

“ That thou merely sayest ’tis not Lucy, without saying who 
indeed it is, this is good proof she is something vile. Does 
Lucy know thy marriage ?” 

“ I am but just from Lucy’s.” 

Thus far Mrs. Glendinning’s rigidity had been slowly relax- 
ing. Now she clutched the balluster, bent over, and trembled, 
for a moment. Then erected all her haughtiness again, and 
stood before Pierre in incurious, unappeasable grief and scorn 
for him. 

“ My dark soul prophesied something dark. If already thou 
hast not found other lodgment, and other table than this house 
supplies, then seek it straight. Beneath my roof, and at my 
table, he who was once Pierre Glendinning no more puts him- 
self.” 

She turned from him, and with a tottering step climbed the 
winding stairs, and disappeared from him ; while in the ballus- 
ter he held, Pierre seemed to feel the sudden thrill running 
down to him from his mother’s convulsive grasp. 

He stared about him with an idiot eye ; staggered to the 
floor below, to dumbly quit the house; but as he crossed its 
threshold, his foot tripped upon its raised ledge ; he pitched for- 
ward upon the stone portico, and fell. He seemed as jeeringly 
hurled from beneath his own ancestral roof. 


252 


PIEERE. 


lY. 

Passing through the broad court-yard’s postern, Pierre 
closed it after him, and then turned and leaned upon it, his 
eyes fixed upon the great central chimney of the mansion, 
from which a light blue smoke was wreathing gently into the 
morning air. 

“ The hearth-stone from which thou risest, never more, I inly 
feel, will these feet press. Oh God, what callest thou that which 
has thus made Pierre a vagabond ?” 

He walked slowly away, and passing the windows of Lucy, 
looked up, and saw the white curtains closely drawn, the 
white-cottage profoundly still, and a white saddle-horse tied be- 
fore the gate. 

“ I would enter, but again would her abhorrent wails repel ; 
what more can I now say or do to her ? I can not explain. 
She knows all I purposed to disclose. Ay, but thou didst 
cruelly burst upon her with it ; thy impetuousness, thy instan- 
taneousness hath killed her, Pierre ! — Nay, nay, nay ! — Cruel 
tidings who can gently break ? If to stab be inevitable ; then 
instant be the dagger ! Those curtains are close drawn upon 
her ; so let me upon her sweet image draw the curtains of my 
soul. Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, thou angel ! — wake no more 
to Pierre, nor to thyself, my Lucy !” 

Passing on now hurriedly and blindly, he jostled against 
some .oppositely-going wayfarer. The man paused amazed; 
and looking up, Pierre recognized a domestic of the Mansion. 
That instantaneousness which now impelled him in all his 
actions, again seized the ascendency in him. Ignoring the dis- 
mayed expression of the man at thus encountering his young 
master, Pierre commanded him to follow him. Going straight 
to the “ Black Swan,” the little village Inn, he entered the fii*st 


PIERRE. 


258 


vacant room, and bidding the man be seated, sought the keeper 
of the house, and ordered pen and paper. 

K fit opportunity offer in the hour of unusual affliction, minds 
of a certain temperament find a strange, hysterical relief, in a 
wild, perverse humorousness, the more alluring from its entire 
unsuitableness to the occasion ; although they seldom manifest 
this trait toward those individuals more immediately involved 
in the cause or the effect of their suffering. The cool censori- 
ousness of the mere philosopher would denominate such con- 
duct as nothing short of temporary madness ; and perhaps it is, 
since, in the inexorable and inhuman eye of mere undiluted rea- 
son, all grief, whether on our own account, or that of others, 
is the sheerest unreason and insanity. 

The note now written was the following : 

“ For that Fine Old Fellow^ Dales, 

“ Dates, my old boy, bestir thyself now. Go to my room, 
.Dates, and bring me down my mahogany strong-box and lock- 
up, the thin g covered with blue chintz ; strap it very carefully, 
my sweet Dates, it is rather heavy, and set it just without the 
postern. Then back and bring me down my writing-desk, and 
set that, too, just without the postern. Then back yet again, 
and biing me down the old camp-bed (see that all the parts be 
there), and bind the case well with a cord. Then go to the left 
corner little drawer in my wardrobe, and thou wilt find my visit- 
ing-cards. Tack one on the chest, and the desk, and the 
camp-bed case. Then get all my clothes together, and pack 
them in trunks (not forgetting the two old military cloaks, 
my boy), and tack cards on them also, my good Dates. Then 
fly round three times indefinitely, my good Dates, and wipe a 
little of the persphation off. And then — let me see — then, my 
good Dates — why what then ? Why, this much. Pick up all 
papers of all sorts that may be lying round my chamber, and 


254 


PIERBE. 


see them burned. And then — have old White Hoof put to 
the lightest farm-wagon, and send the chest, and the desk, and 
the camp-bed, and the trunks to the ‘ Black Swan,’ where I 
shall call for them, when I am ready, and not before, sweet 
Dates. So God bless thee, my fine, old, imperturbable Dates, 
and adieu ! 

“ Thy old young master, Pierre. 

“ Nota hene — Mark well, though. Dates. Should my mother 
possibly interrupt thee, say that it is my orders, and mention 
what it is I send for ; but on no account show this to thy mis- 
tress — ^D’ye hear ? Pierre again.” 

Folding this scrawl into a grotesque shape, Pierre ordered 
the man to take it forthwith to Dates. But the man, all per- 
plexed, hesitated, turning the billet over in his hand ; till Pierre 
loudly and violently bade him begone ; but as the man was 
then rapidly departing in a panic, PieiTe called him back and 
retracted his rude words; but as the servant now lingered* 
again, perhaps thinking to avail himself of this repentant mood 
in Pierre, to say something in sympathy or remonstrance to 
him, Pierre ordered him off with augmented violence, and 
stamped for him to begone. 

Apprising the equally perplexed old landlord that certain 
things would in the coui-se of that forenoon be left for him, 
(Pierre,) at the Inn ; and also desiring him to prepare a chamber 
for himself and wife that night ; some chamber with a com- 
modious connecting room, which might answer for a dressing- 
room ; and likewise still another chamber for a servant ; Pierre 
departed the place, leaving the old landlord staring vacantly 
at him, and dumbly maiTeling what horrible thing had hap- 
pened to turn the brain of his fine young favorite and old 
shooting comrade. Master Pierre. 

Soon the short old man went out bare-headed upon the low 


PIEREE. 


255 


porch of the Inn, descended its one step, and crossed over to the 
middle of the road, gazing after Pierre. And only as Pierre 
turned up a distant lane, did his amazement and his solicitude 
find utterance. 

“ I taught him — yes, old Casks ; — the best shot in all the 
country round is Master Pierre ; — pray God he hits not now 
the bull’s eye in himself. — ^Married ? married ? and coming 
here ? — This is pesky strange I 


BOOK XII. 


ISABEL: MRS. GLENDINNING: THE PORTRAIT; 
AND LUCY. 


I. 

When on the previous night Pierre had left the farm-house 
where Isabel harbored, it will be remembered that no hour, 
either of night or day, no special time at all had been assigned 
for a succeeding interview. It was Isabel, who for some doubt- 
lessly sufficient reason of her own, had, for the first meeting, as- 
signed the early hour of darkness. 

As now, when the full sun was well up the heavens, Pierre 
drew near the farm-house of the Ulvers, he descried Isabel, 
standing without the little dairy-wing, occupied in vertically 
arranging numerous glittering shield-like milk-pans on a long 
shelf, where they might purifyingly meet the sun. Her back 
was toward him. As Pierre passed through the open wicket 
and crossed the short soft gi'een sward, he unconsciously muffled 
his footsteps, and now standing close behind his sister, touched 
her shoulder and stood still. 

She started, trembled, turned upon him swiftly, made a low, 
strange cry, and then gazed rivetedly and imploringly upon him. 

“ I look rather queerish, sweet Isabel, do I not said Pierre 
at last with a writhed and painful smile. 

“My brother, ray blessed brother! — speak — tell me — what 


PIEEKE. 


257 


has happened — what hast thou done ? Oh ! Oh ! I should 
have warned thee before, Pierre, Pierre ; it is my fault — mine, 
mine !” 

What is thy fault, sweet Isabel ?” 

“ Thou hast revealed Isabel to thy mother, Pierre.” 

“ I have not, Isabel. Mrs. Glendinning knows not thy secret 
at all.” 

“ Mrs. Glendinning ? — ^that’s, — that’s thine own mother, 
Pierre ! In heaven’s name, my brother, explain thyself. Knows 
not my secret, and yet thou here so suddenly, and with such a 
fatal aspect ? Come, come with me into the house. Quick, 
Pierre, why dost thou not stir? Oh, my God ! if mad myself 
sometimes, I am to make mad him who loves me best, and who, 
I fear, has in some way ruined himself for me ; — ^then, let me 
no more stand upright on this sod, but fall prone beneath it, 
that I may be hidden ;! Tell me !” catching Pierre’s arms in 
both her frantic hands — “ tell me, do I blast where I look ? is 
my face Gorgon’s ?” 

“ Kay, sweet Isabel ; but it hath a more sovereign power ; 
that turned to stone; thine might turn white marble into 
mother’s milk.” 

“ Come with me — come quickly.” 

They passed into the dairy, and sat down on a bench by the 
honey-suckled casement. 

“ Pierre, forever fatal and accursed be the day my longing 
heart called thee to me, if now, in the very spring-time of our 
related love, thou art minded to play deceivingly with me, even 
though thou should’st fancy it for my good. Speak to me ; oh 
speak to me, my brother!” 

“ Thou hintest of deceiving one for one’s good. Kow sup- 
posing, sweet Isabel, that in no case would I affirmatively de- 
ceive thee ; — in no case whatever ; — would’st thou then be wil- 
ling for thee and me to piously deceive others, for both their 
and. our united good ? — Thou sayest nothing. Now, then, is 


258 


PIERRE. 


it my turn, sweet Isabel, to bid tbee speak to me, ob speak to 
me !” 

“That unknown, approaching thing, seemeth ever ill, my 
brother, which must have unfrank heralds to go before. Oh, 
Pierre, dear, dear Pierre ; be veiy careful with me ! This 
strange, mysterious, unexampled love between us, makes me all 
plastic in thy hand. Be very careful with me. I know little 
out of me. The world seems all one unknown India to me. 
Look up, look on me, Pierre ; say now, thou wilt be very care- 
ful ; say so, say so, Pierre !” 

“ If the most exquisite, and fragile filagree of Genoa be care- 
fully handled by its artisan ; if sacred nature carefully folds, and 
warms, and by inconceivable attentivenesses eggs round and 
round her minute and marvelous embryoes ; then, Isabel, do I 
most carefully and most tenderly egg thee, gentlest one, and the 
fate of thee ! Short of the great God, Isabel, there lives none 
who will be more careful with thee, more infinitely considerate 
and delicate with thee.” 

“ From my deepest heart, do I believe thee, Pierre. Yet 
thou mayest be very delicate in some point, where delicateness 
is not all essential, and in some quick impulsive hour, omit thy 
fullest heedfulness somewhere where heedlessness were most 
fatal. Nay, nay, my brother ; bleach these locks snow-white, 
thou sun ! if I have any thought to reproach thee, PieiTe, or 
betray distrust of thee. But earnestness must sometimes seem 
suspicious, else it is none. Pierre, Pierre, all thy aspect speaks 
eloquently of some already executed resolution, born in sudden- 
ness. Since I last saw thee, Pierre,- some deed irrevocable 
has been done by thee. My soul is stiff and starched to it ; 
now tell me what it is ?” 

“ Thou, and I, and Belly Ulver, to-morrow morning depart 
this whole neighborhood, and go to the distant city. — That is 
it.” 


No more ?” 


PIEREE. 


259 


“ Is it not enough ?” 

“ There is something more, PieiTe.” 

“ Thou hast not yet answered a question I put to thee but 
just now. Bethink thee, Isabel. The deceiving of others by 
thee and me, in a thing wholly pertaining to ourselves, for their 
and our united good. Wouldst thou 

“ I would do any thing that does not tend to the marring of 
thy best lasting fortunes, Pierre. What is it thou wouldst 
have thee and me to do together ? I wait ; I wait !” 

“ Let us go into the room of the double casement, my sis- 
ter,” said Pierre, rising. 

“ Nay, then ; if it can not be said here, then can I not do it 
anywhere, my brother ; for it would harm thee.” 

“ Girl !” cried Pierre, sternly, “ if for thee I have lost” — but 
he checked himself. 

“ Lost ? for me ? Now does the very worst blacken on me. 
Pierre ! Pierre !” 

“ I was foolish, and sought but to frighten thee, my sister. 
It was very foolish. Do thou now go on with thine innocent 
work here, and I will come again a few hours hence. Let me 
go now.” 

He was turning from her, when Isabel sprang forward to him, 
caught him with both her arms round him, and held him so 
convulsively, that her hair sideways swept over him, and half 
concealed him. 

“ Pien-e, if indeed my soul hath cast on thee the same black 
shadow that my hair now flings on thee 5 if thou hast lost 
aught for me ; then eternally is Isabel lost to Isabel, and Isabel 
will not outlive this night. If I am indeed an accursing thing, 
I will not act the given part, but cheat the air, and die from it. 
See ; I let thee go, lest some poison I know not of distill upon 
thee fr’om me.” 

She slowly drooped, and trembled from him. But Pierre 
caught her, and supported her. 


260 


PIERBE. 


“ Foolish, foolish one ! Behold, in the very bodily act of 
loosing hold of me, thou dost reel and fall; — ^unanswerable 
emblem of the indispensable heart-stay, I am to thee, my 
sweet, sweet Isabel ! Prate not then of parting.” 

“ What hast thou lost for me ? Tell me !” 

“ A gainful loss, my sister !” 

“ ’Tis mere rhetoric ! What hast thou lost ?” 

“ JSTothing that my inmost heart would now recall. I have 
bought inner love and glory by a price, which, large or small, 
I would not now have paid me back, so I must return the 
thing I bought.” 

“ Is love then cold, and glory white ? Thy cheek is snowy, 
Pien’e.” 

“ It should be, for I believe to God that I am pure, let the 
world think how it may.” 

“ What hast thou lost ?” 

“ Not thee, nor the pride and glory of ever loving thee, and 
being a continual brother to thee, my best sister. Nay, why 
dost thou now turn thy face from me 2” 

“ With fine words he wheedles me, and coaxes me, not to 
know some secret thing. Go, go, Pierre, come to me when 
thou wilt. I am steeled now to the worst, and to the last. 
Again I tell thee, I will do any thing — yes, any thing that Pierre 
commands — ^for, though outer ill do lower upon us, still, deep 
within, thou wilt be careful, very careful with me, Pierre ?” 

“ Thou art made of that fine, unshared stuff of which God 
makes his seraphim. But thy divine devotedness to me, is met 
by mine to thee. Well mayest thou trust me, Isabel ; and 
whatever strangest thing I may yet propose to thee, thy confi- 
dence, — will it not bear me out ? Surely thou will not hesitate 
to plunge, when I plunge first ; — already have I plunged ! now 
thou canst not stay upon the bank. Hearken, hearken to me. — 
I seek not now to gain thy prior assent to a thing as yet un- 
done ; but I call to thee now, Isabel, fi’om the depth of a fore- 


P I E K R E . 


261 


gone act, to ratify it, backward, by tby consent. Look not so 
bard upon me. Listen. I will tell all. Isabel, tbougb tbou 
art all fearfulness to injure any living thing, least of all, tby 
brother ; still tby true heart foreknowetb not the myriad alli- 
ances and criss-crossings among mankind, the infinite entangle- 
ments of all social things, which forbids that one thread should 
fly the general fabric, on some new line of duty, without tear- 
ing itself and tearing others. Listen. All that has happened 
up to this moment, and all that may be yet to happen, some 
sudden inspiration now assures me, inevitably proceeded fi-om 
the first hour I saw thee. Not possibly could it, or can it, be 
otherwise. Therefore feel I, that I have some patience. Listen. 
Whatever outer things might possibly be mine; whatever 
seeming brightest blessings ; yet now to live uncomforting and 
unloving to thee, Isabel ; now to dwell domestically away from 
thee ; so that only by stealth, and base connivances of the night, 
I could come to thee as thy related brother ; this would be, and 
is, unutterably impossible. In my bosom a secret adder of self- 
reproach and self-infamy would never leave off its sting. Lis- 
ten. But without gratuitous dishonor to a memory which — for 
right cause or wrong — is ever sacred and inviolate to me, I 
can not be an open brother to thee, Isabel. But thou wantest 
not the openness ; for thou dost not pine for empty nominal- 
ness, but for vital realness ; what thou wantest, is not the occa- 
sional openness of my brotherly love ; but its continual domes- 
tic confidence. Bo I not speak thine own hidden heart to thee ? 
say, Isabel ? Well, then, still listen to me. One only way 
presents to this ; a most strange way, Isabel ; to the world, that 
never throbbed for thee in love, a most deceitful way ; but to 
all a harmless way ; so harmless in its essence, Isabel, that, 
seems to me, Pierre hath consulted heaven itself upon it, and 
heaven itself did not say Nay. Still, listen to me ; mark me. 
As thou knowest that thou wouldst now droop and die without 
me ; so would I without thee. We are equal there ; mark 


262 


PIERRE. 


thaty too, Isabel. I do not stoop to thee, nor thou to me ; but 
we both reach up alike to a glorious ideal ! Now the continu- 
alness, the secretness, yet the always present domesticness of 
onr love ; how may we best compass that, without jeopardizing 
the ever-sacred memory I hinted of ? One way — one way — 
only one! A strange way, but most pure. Listen. Brace 
thyself : here, let me hold thee now ; and then whisper it to 
thee, Isabel. Come, I holding thee, thou canst not fall.” 

He held her tremblingly ; she bent over toward him ; his 
mouth wet her ear ; he whispered it. 

The girl moved not; was done with all her tremblings; 
leaned closer to him, with an inexpressible strangeness of an 
intense love, new and inexplicable. Over the face of Pierre 
there shot a terrible self-revelation ; he imprinted repeated 
burning kisses upon her ; pressed hard her hand ; would not 
let go her sweet and awful passiveness. 

Then they changed ; they coiled together, and entangledly 
stood mute. 


II. 

Mrs. Glendinning walked her chamber ; her dress loosened 
“That such accursed vileness should proceed from me! 
Now will the tongued world say — See the vile boy of Mary 
Glendinning !— Deceitful ! thick with guilt, where I thought it 
was all guilelessness and gentlest docility to me. It has not 
happened ! It is not day ! Were this thing so, I should go 
mad, and be shut up, and not walk here where every door is 

open to me. — My own only son married to an unknown 

thing ! My own only son, false to his holiest plighted public 
vow — and the wide world knowing to it ! He beai-s my name 
—Glendinning. I will disown it ; were it like this dress, I 


PIERRE. 


263 


would tear my name off from me, and burn it till it shriveled 
to a crisp ! — Pierre ! Pierre ! come back, come back, and swear 
it is not so ! It can not be ! Wait : I will ring tbe bell, and 
see if it be so.” 

She rung tbe bell with violence, and soon heard a responsive 
knock. 

“ Come in ! — Nay, falter not (throwing a shawl over her) 
“ come in. Stand there and tell me if thou darest, that my 
son was in this house this morning and met me on the stairs. 
Darest thou say that ?” 

Dates looked confounded at her most unwonted aspect. 

“ Say it ! find thy tongue 1 Or I will root mine out and 
fling it at thee 1 Say it !” 

“ My dear mistress !” 

“ I am not thy mistress ! but thou my master; for, if thou 
sayest it, thou commandest me to madness. — Oh, vile boy ! — 
Begone from me !” 

She locked the door upon him, and swiftly and distractedly 
walked her chamber. She paused, and tossing down the cur- 
tains, shut out the sun from the two windows. 

Another, but an un summoned knock, was at the door. She 
opened it. 

‘‘ My mistress, his Reverence is below. I would not call 
you, but he insisted.” 

“ Let him come up.” 

“ Here ? Immediately ?” 

“ Didst thou hear me ? Let Mr. Palsgrave come up.” 

As if suddenly and admonishingly made aware, by Dates, 
of the ungovernable mood of Mrs. Glendinning, the clergyman 
entered the open door of her chamber with a most deprecating 
but honest reluctance, and apprehensiveness of he knew not 
what. 

“ Be seated, sir ; stay, shut the door and lock it.” 

“ Madam !” 


264 


PIERRE. 


will do it. Be seated. Hast thou seen him 

^ Whom, Madam ? — Master Pierre ?” 

“Him !— quick!” 

“ It was to speak of him I came, Madam. He made a most 
extraordinary call upon me last night — midnight.” 

“ And thou marriedst him ? — Damn thee I” 

“ Nay, nay, nay. Madam there is something here I know 
not of — I came to tell thee news, but thou hast some o’erwhelm- 
ing tidings to reveal to me.” 

“ I beg no pardons ; but I may be sorry. Mr, Palsgrave, 
my son, standing publicly plighted to Lucy Tartan, has pri- 
vately wedded some other girl — some slut 1” 

“ Impossible 1” 

“ True as thou art there. Thou knowest nothing of it then ?” 

“ Nothing, nothing — ^not one grain till now. Who is it he 
has wedded ?” 

“ Some slutj I tell thee 1 — I am no lady now, but something 
deeper, — a woman ! — an outraged and pride-poisoned woman !” 

She turned from him swiftly, and again paced the room, as 
frantic and entirely regardless of any presence. Waiting for 
her to pause, but in vain, Mr. Palsgrave advanced toward her 
cautiously, and with the profoundest deference, which was almost 
a cringing, spoke : — 

“ It is the hour of woe to thee ; and I confess my cloth hath no 
consolation for thee yet awhile. Permit me to withdraw from 
thee, leaving my best prayers for thee, that thou mayst know 
some peace, ere this now shut-out sun goes down. Send for 
me whenever thou desirestme. — May I go now?” 

“Begone! and let me not hear thy soft, mincing voice, 
which is an infamy to a man ! Begone, thoii helpless, and un- 
helping one !” 

She swiftly paced the room again, swiftly muttering to her 
self. “ Now, now, now, now I see it clearer, clearer — clear now 
as day ! My first dim suspicions pointed right ! — too right I 


PIERRE. 


265 


Ay — the sewing ! it was the sewing ! — ^The shriek ! — I saw him 
gazing rooted at her. He would not speak going home with 
me. I charged him with his silence ; he put me off with lies, 
lies, lies ! Ay, ay, he is married to her, to her ; — to her ! — 
perhaps was then. And yet, — and yet, — how can it be ? — 
Lucy, Lucy — I saw him, after that, look on her as if he would 
be glad to die for her, and go to hell for her, whither he de- 
serves to go ! — Oh ! oh ! oh ! Thus ruthlessly to cut off, at one 
gross sensual dash, the fair succession of an honorable race ! 
Mixing the choicest wine with filthy water from the plebeian 
pool, and so turning all to undistinguishahle rankness ! — Oh 
viper ! had I thee now in me, I would he a suicide and a mur- 
derer with one blow !” 

A third knock was at the door. She opened it. 

“ My mistress, I thought it would disturb you, — ^it is so just 
overhead, — so I have not removed them yet.” 

“ Unravel thy gibberish ! — what is it ?” 

“ Pardon, my mistress, I somehow thought you knew it, but 
you can not.” 

“ What is that writing crumpling in thy hand ? Give it 
me.” 

“ I have promised my young master not to, my mistress.” 

« I will snatch it, then, and soTeave thee blameless.— What ? 
what? what?— He’s mad sure !—‘ Fine old fellow Dates’— 
what? what?— mad and meiTy !— chest ?— clothes ?— trunks ? 
—he wants them ?— Tumble them out of his window ! — and if 
he stand right beneath, tumble them out! Dismantle that 
whole room. Tear up the carpet. I swear, he shall leave no 
smallest vestige in this house. — Here ! this very spot — here, 
here, where I stand, he may have stood upon ; — yes, he tied 
my shoe-string here ; it’s slippery ! Dates 1” 

“ My mistress.” 

“ Do his bidding. By reflection he has made me infamous 
to the world ; and I will make him infamous to it. Listen, and 

M 


266 


PIE KRE. 


do not delude thyself that I am crazy. Go up to yonder 
room” (pointing upward), “ and remove eveiy article in it, and 
where he bid thee set down the chest and triinhs, there set 
down all the contents of that room.” 

“ ’Twas before the house — ^this house !” 

“ And if it had not been there, I would not order thee to put 
them there. Dunce ! I would have the world know that I dis- 
own and scorn him ! Do my bidding ! — Stay. Let the room 
stand ; but take him what he asks for.” 

“ I will, my mistress.” 

As Dates left the chamber, Mi*s. Glendinning again paced it 
swiftly, and again swiftly muttered : “ Now, if I were less a 
strong and haughty woman, the fit would have gone by ere 
now. But deep volcanoes long bum, ere they burn out. — Oh, 
that the world were made of such malleable stuflf, that we could 
recklessly do our fieriest heart’s-wish before it, and not falter. 
Accursed be those four syllables of sound which make up that 
vile word Propriety. It is a chain and bell to drag ; — drag ? 
what sound is that ? there’s dragging — ^his trunks — the travel- 
er’s — dragging out. Oh would I could so drag my heart, as 
fishers for the drowned do, as that I might drag up my sunken 
happiness ! Boy ! boy ! worse than brought in dripping 
drowned to me, — drowned in icy infamy ! Oh ! oh ! oh !” 

She threw herself upon the bed, covered her face, and lay 
motionless. But suddenly rose again, and hurriedly rang the 
bell. 

“ Open that desk, and draw the stand to me. Now wait and 
take this to Miss Lucy.” 

With a pencil she rapidly traced these lines : — 

“ My heart bleeds for thee, sweet Lucy. I can not speak I 

know it all. Look for me the first hour I regain myself.” 

Again she threw herself upon the bed, and lay motionless. 


PIERRE. 


267 


III. 

Toward sundown that evening, Pierre stood in one of the 
three bespoken chambers in the Black Swan Inn; the blue 
chintz-covered chest and the writing-desk before him. His 
hands were eagerly searching through his pockets. 

“ The key ! the key ! Nay, then, I must force it open. It 
bodes ill, too. Yet lucky is it, some bankers can break into 
their own vaults, when other means do fail. Not so, ever. 
Let me see : — yes, the tongs there. Now then for the sweet 
sight of gold and silver. I never loved it till this day. How 
long it has been hoarded ; — little token pieces, of years ago, 
from aunts, uncles, cousins innumerable, and from — but I won’t 
mention them; dead henceforth to me! Sure there’ll be a 
premium on such ancient gold. There’s some broad bits, token 
pieces to my — I name him not — more than half a centuiy ago. 
Well, well, I never thought to cast them back into the sordid 
circulations whence they came. But if they must be spent, 
now is the time, in this last necessity, and in this sacred cause. 
’Tis a most stupid, dunderheaded crowbar. Hoy ! so ! ah, now 
for it : — snake’s nest 1” 

Forced suddenly back, the chest-lid had as suddenly revealed 
to him the chair-portrait lying on top of all the rest, where he 
had secreted it some days before. Face up, it met him with 
its noiseless, ever-nameless, and ambiguous, unchanging smile. 
Now his first repugnance was augmented by an emotion alto- 
gether new. That certain lurking lineament in the portrait, 
whose strange transfer blended with far other, and sweeter, and 
nobler characteristics, was visible in the countenance of Isabel ; 
that lineament in the portrait was somehow now detestable ; 
nay, altogether loathsome, ineffably so, to Pierre. He argued 
not with himself why this was so ; ho only felt it, and most 
keenly. 


268 


PIERRE. 


Omitting more subtile inquisition into this deftly-winding 
theme, it will be enough to hint, perhaps, that possibly one 
source of this new hatefulness had its primary and unconscious 
rise in one of those profound ideas, which at times atmospheri- 
cally, as it were, do insinuate themselves even into very ordi- 
nary minds. In the strange relativeness, reciprocalness, and 
transmittedness, between the long-dead father’s portrait, and the 
living daughter’s face, Pierre might have seemed to see reflect- 
ed to him, by visible and uncontradictable symbols, the tyranny 
of Time and Fate. Painted before the daughter was conceived 
or born, like a dumb seer, the portrait still seemed leveling its 
prophetic finger at that empty air, from which Isabel did finally 
emerge. There seemed to lurk some mystical intelligence and 
vitahty in the picture ; because, since in his own memory of his 
father, Pierre could not recall any distinct lineament transmit- 
ted to Isabel, but vaguely saw such in the portrait ; therefore, 
not Pierre’s parent, as any way rememberable by him, but the 
portrait’s painted self seemed the real father of Isabel ; for, so 
far as all sense went, Isabel had inherited one peculiar trait no- 
whither traceable but to it. 

And as his father was now sought to be banished from his 
mind, as a most bitter presence there, but Isabel was become a 
thing of intense and fearful love for him ; therefore, it was loath- 
some to him, that in the smiling and ambiguous portrait, her 
sweet mournful image should be so sinisterly becrooked, be- 
mixed, and mutilated to him. 

When the first shock, and then the pause were over, he lifted 
the portrait in his two hands, and held it averted from him. 

“ It shall not live. Hitherto I have hoarded up mementoes 
and monuments of the past; been a woi-shiper of all heir- 
looms ; a fond filer away of letters, locks of hair, bits of ribbon, 
flowers, and the thousand-and-one minutenesses which love and 
memory think they sanctify : — ^but it is forever over now ! If 
to me any memory shall henceforth be dear, I will not mummy 


PIERKE. 


269 


it in a visible memorial for every passing beggar’s dust to 
gather on. Love’s museum is vain and foolish as the Cata- 
combs, where grinning apes and abject lizards are embalmed, 
as, forsooth, significant of some imagined charm. It speaks 
merely of decay and death, and nothing more; decay and 
death of endless innumerable generations ; it makes of earth 
one mold. How can lifelessness be fit memorial of life I — So 
far, for mementoes of the sweetest. As for the rest — ^now I 
know this, that in commonest memorials, the twilight fact of 
death Si's! discloses in some secret way, all the ambiguities of 
that departed thing or person ; obliquely it casts hints, and in- 
sinuates surmises base, and eternally incapable of being cleared. 
Decreed by God Omnipotent it is, that Death should be the 
last scene of the last act of man’s play ; — a play, which begin 
how it may, in farce or comedy, ever hath its tragic end ; the 
curtain inevitably falls upon a corpse. Therefore, never more 
will I play the vile pigmy, and by small memorials after death, 
attempt to reverse the decree of death, by essaying the poor 
perpetuating of the image of the original. Let all die, and mix 
again ! As for this — this ! — why longer should I preserve it ? 
Why preserve that on which one can not patient look ? If I 
am resolved to hold his public memory inviolate, — destroy this 
thing ; for here is the one great, condemning, and unsuborned 
proof, whose mysticalness drives me half mad. — Of old Greek 
times, before man’s brain went into doting bondage, and 
bleached and beaten in Baconian fulling-mills, his four limbs 
lost their barbaric tan and beauty ; when the round world was 
fresh, and rosy, and spicy, as a new-plucked apple ; — all’s wilt- 
ed now ! — in those bold times, the great dead were not, turkey- 
like, dished itf trenchers, and set down all garnished in the 
ground, to glut the damned Cyclop like a cannibal ; but nobly 
envious Life cheated the glutton worm, and gloriously burned 
the corpse ; so that the spirit up-pointed, and visibly forked to 
heaven ! 


270 


PIEERE. 


“ So now will I serve thee. Though that solidity of which 
thou art the unsolid duplicate, hath long gone to its hideous 
church-yard account ; — and though, God knows ! but for one 
part of thee it may have been fit auditing ; — ^yet will I now a 
second time see thy obsequies performed, and by now burning 
thee, urn thee in the great vase of air ! Come now !” 

A small wood-fire had been kindled on the hearth to purify 
the long-closed room ; it was now diminished to a small pointed 
heap of glowing embers. Detaching and dismembering the 
gilded but tarnished frame, Pierre laid the four pieces on the 
coals ; as their dryness soon caught the sparks, he rolled the 
reversed canvas into a scroll, and tied it, and committed it 
to the now crackling, clamorous flames. Steadfastly Pierre 
watched the fii*st crispings and blackenings of the painted scroll, 
but started as suddenly unwinding fi*om the burnt string that 
had tied it, for one swift instant, seen through the flame and 
smoke, the upwrithing portrait tormentedly stared at him in 
beseeching horror, and then, wrapped in one broad sheet of oily 
fire, disappeared forever. 

Yielding to a sudden ungovernable impulse, Pierre darted 
his hand among the flames, to rescue the imploring face ; but 
as swiftly drew back his scorched and bootless grasp. His 
hand was burnt and blackened, but he did not heed it. 

He ran back to the chest, and seizing repeated packages of 
family letters, and all sorts of miscellaneous memorials in paper, 
he threw them one after the other upon the fire. 

“ Thug, and thus, and thus ! on thy manes I fling fresh 
spoils ; pour out. all my memory in one libation ! — so, so, so — 
lower, lower, lower ; now all is done, and all is ashes ! Hence- 
forth, cast-out Pierre hath no paternity, and no past ; and since 
the Future is one blank to all ; therefore, twice-disinherited 
Pierre stands untrammeledly his ever-present self! — free to do 
his own self-will and present fancy to whatever end !” 


PIERRE. 


271 


TkjiT same sunset Lucy lay in her chamber. A knock 
was heard at its door, and the responding Martha was met by 
the now self-controlled and resolute face of Mrs. Glendinning. 

“ How is your young mistress, Martha ? May I come in ?” 

But waiting for no answer, with the same breath she passed 
the maid, and determinately entered the room. 

She sat down by the bed, and met the open eye, but closed 
and pallid mouth of Lucy. She gazed rivetedly and inquisi- 
tively a moment; then turned a quick aghast look toward 
Martha, as if seeking warrant for some shuddering thought. ^ 

“Miss Lucy” — said Martha — “it is your — it is Mrs. Glen- 
dinning. Speak to her. Miss Lucy.” 

As if left in the last helpless attitude of some spent contor- 
tion of her grief, Lucy was not lying in the ordinary posture of 
one in bed, but lay half crosswise upon it, with the pale pil- 
lows propping her hueless form, and but a single sheet thrown 
over her, as though she were so heart overladen, that her white 
body could not bear one added feather. And as in any snowy) 
marble statue, the drapery clings to the limbs ; so as one found 
drowned, the thin, defining sheet invested Lucy. 

“ It is Mrs. Glendinning. Will you speak to her. Miss Lucy ?” 

The thin lips moved and trembled for a moment, and then 
were still again, and augmented pallor shrouded her. 

Martha brought restoratives ; and when all was as before, 
she made a gesture for the lady to depart, and in a* whisper, 
said, “She will not -speak to any; she does not speak to me. 
The doctor has just left — he has been here five times since 
morning — and says she must be kept entirely quiet.” Then 
pointing to the stand, added, “ You see what he has left — piere 
restoratives. Quiet is her best medicine now, he says. Quiet, 
quiet, quiet ! Ob, sweet quiet, wilt thou now ever come ?” 


272 


PI EB RE. 


“ Has Mrs. Tartan been written to ?” whispered the lady. 
Martha nodded. ♦ 

So the lady moved to quit the room, saying that once every 
two hours she would send to know how Lucy fared. 

“But where, where is her aunt, Martha?” she exclaimed, 
owly, pausing at the door, and glancing in sudden astonish- 
ment about the room ; “ surely, surely, Mrs. Lanyllyn — 

“ Poor, poor old lady,” weepingly whispered Martha, “ she 
hath caught infection from sweet Lucy’s woe; she hurried 
hither, caught one glimpse of that bed, and fell like dead upon 
the floor. The Doctor hath two patients now, lady” — ^glancing 
at the bed, and tenderly feeling Lucy’s bosom, to mark if yet 
it heaved ; “ Alack ! Alack ! oh, reptile ! reptile ! that could 
sting so sweet a breast ! fire would be too cold for him — ac- 
cursed !” 

“ Thy own tongue blister the roof of thy mouth !” cried Mrs. 
Glendinning, in a half-stifled, whispering scream. “ ’Tis not 
for thee, hired one, to rail at my son, though he were Lucifer, 
simmering in Hell ! Mend thy manners, minx !” 

And she left the chamber, dilated with her unconquerable 
pride, leaving Martha aghast at such venom in such beauty. 


BOOK XIIL 


THEY DEPART THE MEADOWS. 


I. 

It was just dusk when Pierre approached the Ulver farm- 
house, in a wagon belonging to the Black Swan Inn. He 
met his sister shawled and bonneted in the porch. 

“ Now then, Isabel, is all ready ? Where is Delly ? I see 
two most small and inconsiderable portmanteaux. Wee is the 
chest that holds the goods of the disowned ! The wagon waits, 
Isabel. Now is all ready ? and nothing left 

“ Nothing, Pierre ; unless in going hence — but I’ll not think 
of that ; all’s fated.” 

“ Delly ! where is she ? Let us go in for her,” said Pierre, 
catching the hand of Isabel, and turning rapidly. As he thus 
half dragged her into the little lighted entry, and then dropping 
her hand, placed his touch on the catch of the inner door, Isa- 
bel stayed his arm, as if to keep him back, till she should fore- 
warn him against something concerning Delly ; but suddenly 
she started herself ; and for one instant, eagerly pointing at his 
right hand, seemed almost to half shrink from Pierre. 

“ ’Tis nothing. I am not hurt ; a slight burn — the merest 
accidental scorch this morning. But what’s this ?” he added, 
lifting his hand higher ; “ smoke ! soot ! this comes of going 
in the dark ; sunlight, and I had seen it. But I have not 
touched thee, Isabel ?” 


274 


PIERRE. 


Isabel lifted her hand and showed the marks. — “ But it came 
from thee, my brother^ and I would catch the plague from 
thee, so that it should make me share thee. Do thou clean thy 
hand ; let mine alone.” 

“ Delly ! Delly !” — cried Pierre — “ why may I not go to her, 
to bring her forth ?” 

Placing her finger upon her lip, Isabel softly opened the 
door, and showed the object of his inquiiy. avertedly seated, 
muffled, on a chair. 

“ Do not speak to her, my brother,” whispered Isabel, “ and 
do not seek to behold her face, as yet. It will pass over now, 
ere long, I trust. Come, shall we go now ? Take Delly forth, 
but do not speak to her. I have bidden all good-by ; the old 
people are in yonder room in the rear ; I am glad that they 
chose not to come out, to attend our going forth. Come now, 
be very quick, Pierre ; this is^an hour I like not ; be it swiftly 
past.” 

Soon all three alighted at the inn. Ordering lights, Pierre 
led the way above-stairs, and ushered his two companions into 
one of the two outermost rooms of the three adjoining cham- 
bers prepared for all. 

“ See,” said he, to the mute and still self-averting figure of 
Delly ; — “ see, this is thy room. Miss Ulver ; Isabel has told 
thee all ; thou know’st our till now secret marriage ; she will 
stay with thee now, till I return from a little business down 
the street. To-morrow, thou know’st, very early, we take the 
stage. I may not see thee again till then, so, be steadfast, and 
cheer up a very little. Miss Ulver, and good-night. All will 
be well.” 


P I E K K E. 


276 


II. 

Next morning, by break of day, at four o’clock, the four 
swift hours were personified in four impatient horses, which 
shook their trappings beneath the windows of the inn. Three 
figures emerged into the cool dim air and took their places in 
the coach. 

The old landlord had silently and despondently shaken 
Pierre by the hand ; the vainglorious driver was on his box, 
threadingly adjusting the four reins among the fingers of his 
buck-skin gloves ; the usual thin company of admiring ostlers 
and other early on-lookers were gathered about the porch; 
when — on his companions’ account — all eager to cut short any 
vain delay, at such a painful crisis, Pierre impetuously shouted 
for the coach to move. In a moment, the four meadow-fed 
young horses leaped forward their own generous lengths, and 
the four responsive wheels rolled their complete circles ; while 
making vast rearward flourishes with his whip, the elated 
driver seemed as a bravado-hero signing his ostentatious fare- 
well signature in the empty air. And so, in the dim of the 
dawn — and to the defiant crackings of that long and sharp- 
resounding whip, the three forever fled the sweet fields of Sad- 
dle Meadows. 

The short old landlord gazed after the coach awhile, and 
then re-entering the inn, stroked his gray beard and muttered 
to himself : — “ I have kept this house, now, three-and-thirty 
years, and have had plenty of bridal-parties come and go ; in 
their long train of wagons, break-downs, buggies, gigs — a gay 
and giggling train — Ha ! — there’s a pun ! popt out like a cork 
— ay, and once in ox-carts, all garlanded ; ay, and once, the 
merry bride was bedded on a load of sweet-scented new-cut 
clover. But such a bridal-party as this morning’s — why, it’s 
as sad as funerals. And brave Master Pierre Glendinning is 


276 


PIERRE. 


the groom ! Well, well, wonders is all the go. I thought I 
had done with wondering when I passed fifty ; but I keep 
wondering still. Ah, somehow, now, I feel as though I had 
just come fi-om lowering some old friend beneath the sod, and 
yet felt the grating cord-marks in my palms. — ’Tis early, but 
I’ll drink. Let’s see ; cider, — -a mug of cider ; — ’tis sharp, and 
pricks like a game-cock’s spur, — cider’s the drink for grief. 
Oh, Lord ! that fat men should be so thin-skinned, and sufler 
in pure synapathy on others’ account. A thin-skinned, thin 
man, he don’t suffer so, because there ain’t so much stuff in 
him for his thin skin to cover. Well, well, well, well, well ; 
of all colics, save me from the melloncholics ; green melons is 
the greenest thing !” 


BOOK XIV. 


THE JOUKNET AND THE PAMPHLET. 


I. 

All profound things, and emotions of things are preceded 
and attended, by Silence. What a silence is that with which 
the pale bride precedes the responsive I will, to the priest’s 
solemn question, Wilt thou have this man for thy husband ? 
In silence, too, the wedded hands are clasped. Yea, in silence 
the child Christ was born into the world. Silence is the gen- 
eral consecration of the universe. Silence is the invisible lay- 
ing on of the Divine Pontiff’s hands upon the world. Silence 
is at once the most harmless and the most awful thing in all 
nature. It speaks of the Reserved Forces of Fate. Silence is 
the only Voice of our God. 

FTor is this so. august Silence confined to things simply touch- 
ing or grand. Like the air, Silence permeates all things, and 
produces its magical power, as well during that peculiar mood 
which prevails at a solitary traveler’s first setting forth on a 
journey, as at the unimaginable time when before the world 
was. Silence brooded on the face of the waters. 

NTo word was spoken by its inmates, as the coach bearing 
our young Enthusiast, Pierre, and his mournful party, sped 
forth through the dim dawn into the deep midnight, which 
still occupied, unrepulsed, the hearts of the old woods through 
which the road wound, very shortly after quitting the village. 


278 


PIERRE. 


When fii*st entering the coach, Pierre had pressed his hand 
upon the cushioned seat to steady his way, some crumpled 
leaves of paper had met his fingers. He had instinctively 
clutched them ; and the same strange clutching mood of his 
soul which had prompted that instinctive act, did also prevail 
in causing him now to retain the crumpled paper in his hand 
for an hour or more of that wonderful intense silence, which 
the rapid coach bore through the heart of the general stirless 
morning silence of the fields and the woods. 

His thoughts were very dark and wild ; for a space there 
was rebellion and horrid anarchy and infidelity in his soul. 
This temporary mood may best be likened to that, which — ac- 
cording to a singular story once told in the pulpit by a reverend 
man of God — invaded the heart of an excellent priest. In the 
midst of a solemn cathedral, upon a cloudy Sunday afternoon, 
this priest was in the act of publicly administering the bread ^ 
at the Holy Sacrament of the Supper, when the Evil One sud- 
denly propounded to him the possibility of the mere moonshine 
of the Christian Religion. Just such now was the mood of 
Pierre ; to him the Evil One propounded the possibility of the 
mere moonshine of all his self-renouncing Enthusiasm. The 
Evil One hooted at him, and called him a fool. But by in- 
stant and earnest prayer — closing his two eyes, with his two 
hands still holding the sacramental bread — the devout priest 
had vanquished the impious Devil. Not so with Pierre. The 
imperishable monument of his holy Catholic Church ; the im- 
perishable record of his Holy Bible ; the imperishable intuition 
of the innate truth of Christianity ; — these were the indestruc- 
tible anchors which still held the priest to his firm Faith’s rock, 
when the sudden storm raised by the Evil One assailed him. 
But Pierre — where could he find the Church, the monument, 
the Bible, which unequivocally said to him — “ Go on ; thou 
art in the Right ; I endorse thee all over ; go on.”^ — So the 
difference between the Priest and Pieri-e was herein : — with the 


PIERRE. 


• 279 


priest it was a matter, whether certain bodiless thoughts of his 
were true or not true; hut with Pierre it was a question 
whether certain vital acts of his were right or wrong. In this 
little nut lie germ-like the possible solution of some puzzling 
problems ; and also the discovery of additional, and still more 
profound problems ensuing upon the solution of the former. 
For so true is this last, that some men refuse to solve any 
present problem, for fear of making still more work for them'- 
selves in that way. 

Now, Pierre thought of the magical, mournful letter of Isa- 
bel, he recalled the divine inspiration of that hour when the 
heroic words burst from his heart — “ Comfort thee, and stand 
by thee, and fight for thee, will thy leapingly-acknowledging 
brother !” These remembrances unfurled themselves in proud 
exultations in his soul ; and from before such glorious banners 
of Virtue, the club-footed Evil One limped away in dismay. 
But now the dread, fateful parting look of his mother came 
over him ; anew he heard the heart-proscribing words — “ Be- 
neath my roof and at my table, he who was once Pierre Glen- 
dinning no more puts himself — swooning in her snow-white 
bed, the lifeless Lucy lay before him, wrapt as in the reverberat- 
ing echoings of her own agonizing shriek : “ My heart ! my heart !” 
Then how swift the recurrence to Isabel, and the nameless aw- 
fulness of his still imperfectly conscious, incipient, new-mingled 
emotion toward this mysterious being. “ Lo ! I leave corpses 
wherever I go !” groaned Pierre to himself— “ Can then my con- 
duct be right ? Lo ! by my conduct I seem threatened by the 
possibility of a sin anomalous and accursed, so anomalous, it 
may well be the one for which Scripture says, there is never for- 
giveness. Corpses behind me, and the last sin before, how 
then can my conduct be right ?” 

In this mood, the silence accompanied him, and the first vis- 
ible rays of the morning sun in this same mood found him and 
saluted him. The excitement and the sleepless night just 


280 


PIE ERE. 


passed, and the stmnge narcotic of a quiet, steady anguish, and 
the sweet quiescence of the air, and the monotonous cradle-like 
motion of the coach over a road made firm and smooth by a 
refreshing shower over night ; these had wrought their wonted 
effect upon Isabel and Delly ; with hidden faces they leaned 
fast asleep in Pierre’s sight. Fast asleep— thus unconscious, 
oh sweet Isabel, oh forlorn Delly, your swift destinies I bear in 
my own ! 

Suddenly, as his sad eye fell lower and lower from scanning 
their magically quiescent persons, his glance lit upon his own 
clutched hand, which rested on his knee. Some paper pro- 
truded from that clutch. He knew not how it had got there, 
or whence it had come, though himself had closed his own 
gripe upon it. He lifted his hand and slowly unfingered and 
unbolted the paper, and unrolled it, and carefully smoothed it, 
to see what it might be. 

It was a thin, tattered, dried-fish -like thing ; printed with 
blurred ink upon mean, sleazy paper. It seemed the opening 
pages of some ruinous old pamphlet — a pamphlet containing a 
chapter or so of some very voluminous disquisition. The con- 
clusion was gone. It must have been accidentally left there by 
some previous traveler, who perhaps in drawing out his hand- 
kerchief, had ignorantly extracted his waste paper. 

There is a singular infatuation in most men, which leads 
them in odd moments, intermitting between their regular occu- 
pations, and when they find themselves all alone in some quiet 
comer or nook, to fasten with unaccountable fondness upon the 
merest rag of old printed paper — some shred of a long-explod- 
ed advertisement perhaps — and read it, and study it, and re- 
read it, and pore over it, and fairly agonize themselves over this 
miserable, sleazy paper-rag, which at any other time, or in any 
other place, they would hardly touch with St. Dunstan’s long 
tongs. So now, in a degree, with Pierre. But notwithstand- 
ing that he, with most other human beings, shared in the 


PIEREE. 


281 


strange hallucination above mentioned, yet the first glimpse of 
the title of the dried-fish-like, pamphlet-shaped rag, did almost 
tempt him to pitch it out of the window. For, be a man’s 
mood what it may, what sensible and ordinary mortal could 
have patience for any considerable period, to knowingly hold in 
his conscious hand a printed document (and that too a very 
blurred one as to ink, and a very sleazy one as to paper), so 
metaphysically and insufferably entitled as this : — Chrono- 
metricals & Horologicals f ’ 

Doubtless, it was something vastly profound ; but it is to be 
observed, that when a man is in a really profound mood, then 
all merely verbal or written profundities are unspeakably re- 
pulsive, and seem downright childish to him. Nevertheless, 
the silence still continued ; the road ran through an almost un- 
plowed and uninhabited region ; the slumberers still slum- 
bered before him ; the evil mood was becoming well nigh in- 
supportable to him ; so, more to force his mind away from the 
dark realities of things than fi’om any other motive, Pierre 
finally tried his best to plunge himself into the pamphlet. 


II. 

Sooner or later in this life, the earnest, or enthusiastic youth 
comes to know, and more or less appreciate this startling sole- 
cism: — That while, as the grand condition of acceptance to 
God, Christianity calls upon all men to renounce this world ; 
yet by all odds the most Mammonish part of this world— 
Europe and America — are owned by none but professed Chris- 
tian nations, who glory in the owning, and seem to have some 
reason therefor. 

This solecism once vividly and practically apparent; then 
comes the earnest reperusal of the Gospels : the intense self-ab- 


282 


PIERRE. 


sorption into tliat greatest real miracle of all religions, the Ser- 
mon on the Mount. From that divine mount, to all earnest- 
loving youths, flows an inexhaustible soul-melting stream of, ten- 
derness and loving-kindness ; and they leap exulting to their 
feet, to think that the founder of their holy religion gave utter- 
ance to sentences so infinitely sweet and soothing as these ; 
sentences which embody all the love of the Past, and all the 
love which can be imagined in any conceivable Future. Such 
emotions as that Sermon raises in the enthusiastic heart ; such 
emotions all youthful hearts refuse to ascribe to humanity as 
their origin. This is of God ! cries the heart, and in that ciy 
ceases all inquisition. Now, with this fresh-read sermon in his 
soul, the youth again gazes abroad upon the world. Instantly, 
in aggravation of the former solecism, an overpowering sense 
of the world’s downright positive falsity comes over him ; the 
world seems to lie saturated and soaking with lies. The sense 
of this thing is so overpowering, that at first the youth is apt to 
refuse the evidence of his own senses ; even as he does that 
same ertdence in the matter of the movement of the visible sun 
in the heavens, which with his own eyes he plainly sees to go 
round the world, but nevertheless on the authority of other per- 
sons, — the Copernican astronomers, whom he never saw' — he 
believes it not to go round the w'orld, but the world round it. 
J ust so, too, he hears good and wise people sincerely say : This 
world only seems to be saturated and soaking with lies ; but in 
reality it does not so lie soaking and saturate ; along with some 
lies, there is much truth in this world. But again he refers to 
his Bible, and there he reads most explicitly, that this world is 
unconditionally depraved and accursed ; and that at all hazards 
men must come out of it. But why come out of it, if it be a 
True World and not a Lying World? Assuredly, then, this 
world is a lie. 

Hereupon then in the soul of the enthusiast youth two ar- 
mies come to the shock ; and unless he prove recreant, or un- 


PIERRE. 


283 


less lie prove gullible, or uilless he can find the talismanic se- 
cret, to reconcile this world with his own soul, then there is no 
peace for him, no slightest truce for him in this life. Now 
without doubt this Talismanic Secret has never yet been found ; 
and in the nature of human things it seems as though it never 
can be. Certain philosophers have time and again pretended 
to have found it ; but if they do not in the end discover their 
own delusion, other people soon discover it for themselves, and 
so those philosophers and their vain philosophy are let glide 
away into practical oblivion. Plato, and Spinoza, and Goethe, 
and many more belong to this guild of self-impostors, with a 
preposterous rabble of Muggletonian Scots and Yankees, whose 
vile brogue still the more bestreaks the stripedness of their 
Greek or German Neoplatonical originals. That profound 
Silence, that only Voice of our God, which I before spoke of; 
from that divine thing without a name, those impostor philoso- 
phers pretend somehow to have got an answer ; which is as 
absurd, as though they should say they had got water out of 
stone ; for how can a man get a Voice out of Silence ? 

Certainly, all must admit, that if for any one this problem 
of the possible reconcilement of this world with our own souls 
possessed a peculiar and potential interest, that one was PieiTe 
Glendinning at the period we now write of. For in obedience 
to the loftiest behest of his soul, he had done certain vital acts, 
which had already lost him his worldly felicity, and which he 
felt must in the end indirectly work him some still additional 
and not-to-be-thought-of woe. ^ 

Soon then, as after his first distaste at the mystical title, and 
after his then reading on, merely to drown himself, Pierre at 
last began to obtain a glimmering into the profound intent of 
the writer of the sleazy rag pamphlet, he felt a great interest 
awakened in him. The more he read and re-read, the more 
this interest deepened, but still the more likewise did his failure 
to comprehend the writer increase. He seemed somehow to 


284 


PIERRE. 


derive some general vague inkling concerning it, but the central 
conceit refused to become clear to him. The reason whereof is 
not so easy to be laid down ; seeing that the reason-originating 
heart and mind of man, these organic things themselves are not 
so easily to be expounded. Something, however, more or less 
to the point, may be adventured here. 

If a man be in any vague latent doubt about the intrinsic 
correctness and excellence of his general life-theory and practical 
course of life ; then, if that man chance to light on any other 
man, or any little treatise, or sermon, which unintendingly, as 
it were, yet very palpably illustrates to him the intrinsic incor- 
rectness and non-excellence of both the theory and the practice 
of his life ; then that man will — more or less unconsciously — 
try hard to hold himself back horn the self-admitted compre- 
hension of a matter which thus condemns him. For in this 
case, to comprehend, is himself to condemn himself, which is 
always highly inconvenient and uncomfortable to a man. 
Again. If a man be told a thing wholly new, then — during the 
time of its first announcement to him — it is entirely impossible 
for him to comprehend it. For — absurd as it may seem — men 
are only made to comprehend things which they comprehended 
before (though but in the embryo, as it were). Things new 
it is impossible to make them comprehend, by merely talking 
to them about it. True, sometimes they pretend to compre- 
hend ; in their own hearts they really believe they do compre- 
hend ; outwardly look as though they did comprehend ; wag 
their bushy tails comprehendingly ; but for all that, they do not 
comprehend. Possibly, they may afterward come, of them- 
selves, to inhale this new idea from the circumambient air, and 
so come to comprehend it ; but not otherwise at all. It will 
be observed, that neither points of the above speculations do we, 
in set terms, attribute to Pierre in connection with the ras: 
pamphlet. Possibly both might be applicable ; possibly neither. 
Certain it is, however, that at the time, in his own heart, he 


PIERRE. 


285 


seemed to think that he did not fully comprehend the strange 
writer’s conceit in all its hearings. Yet was this conceit appa- 
rently one of the plainest in the world ; so natural, a child 
might almost have originated it. Nevertheless, again so pro- 
found, that scarce Juggularius himself could be the author; 
and still again so exceedingly trivial, that Juggularius’ smallest 
child might well have been ashamed of it. 

Seeing then that this curious paper rag so puzzled Pierre ; 
foreseeing, too, that Pierre may not in the end be entirely un- 
influenced in his conduct by the torn pamphlet, when after- 
wards perhaps by other means he shall come to understand it ; 
or, peradventure, come to know that he, in the first place, did 
— seeing too that the author thereof came to be made known 
to him by reputation, and though Pierre never spoke to him, 
yet exerted a surprising sorcery upon his spirit by the mere 
distant glimpse of his countenance ; — all these reasons I ac- 
count sufficient apology for inserting in the following chapters 
the initial part of what seems to me a very fanciful and mys- 
tical, rather than philosophical Lecture, from which, I confess, 
that I myself can derive no conclusion which permanently sat- 
isfies those peculiar motions in my soul, to which that Lecture 
seems more particularly addressed. For to me it seems more 
the excellently illustrated re-statement of a problem, than the 
solution of the problem itself. But as such mere illustrations 
are almost univei-sally taken for solutions (and perhaps they 
are the only possible human solutions), therefore it may help to 
the temporary quiet of some inquiring mind ; and so not be 
wholly without use. At the worst, each person can now skip, 
or read and rail for himself. 


286 


PIERBB. 


III. 

BY 

PLOTINUS PLINLIMMON, 

(In Three Hundred and Thirty-three Lectures) 


LECTURE FIRST. 

CHKONOMETRICALS AND HOROLOGICALS, 

{Being not so much the Portal, as fart of the temporary Scaffold to tM 
PoHal of this new Philosophy.) 

“ Few of us doubt, gentlemen, that human life on this earth 
is but a state of probation ; which among other things implies, 
that here below, we mortals have only to do with things pro- 
visional. Accordingly, I hold that all our so-called wisdom is 
likewise but provisional. 

“ This preamble laid down, I begin. 

“ It seems to me, in my visions, that there is a certain most 
rare order of human souls, which if carefully carried in the body 
will almost always and everywhere give Heaven’s own Truth, 
with some small grains of variance. For peculiarly coming 
from God, the sole source of that heavenly truth, and the gi’eat 
Greenwich hill and tower from which the universal meridians 
are far out into infinity reckoned ; such souls seem as London 
sea-chronometers (Greeks time-namers) which as the London 
ship floats past Greenwich down the Thames, are accurately 
adjusted by Greenwich time, and if heedfully kept, will still 
give that same time, even though carried to the Azores. True, 
in nearly all cases of long, remote voyages — to China, say — 
chronometers of the best make, and the most carefully treated, 


PIERRE. 


287 


will gradually more or less vary from Greenwich time, without 
the possibility of the error being con-ected by direct comparison 
with their great standard ; but skillful and devout observations 
of the stars by the sextant will serve materially to lessen such 
eiTors. And besides, there is such a thing as rating a chro- 
nometer ; that is, having ascertained its degree of organic in- 
accuracy, however small, then in all subsequent chronometrical 
calculations, that ascertained loss or gain can be readily added 
or deducted, as the case may be. Then again, on these long 
voyages, the chronometer may be corrected by comparing it 
with the chronometer of some other ship at sea, more recently 
from home. 

“ Now in an artificial world like ours, the soul of man is fur- 
ther removed from its God and the Heavenly Truth, than the 
chronometer carried to China, is from Greenwich. And, as 
that chronometer, if at all accurate, will pronounce it to be 
12 o’clock high-noon, when the China local watches say, per- 
haps, it is 12 o’clock midnight; so the chronometric soul, if in 
this world true to its great Greenwich in the other, will always, 
in its so-called intuitions of right and wrong, be contradicting 
the mere local standards and watch-maker’s brains of this earth. 

“ Bacon’s brains were mere watch-maker’s brains ; but Christ 
was a chronometer ; and the most exquisitely adjusted and 
exact one, and the least affected by all terrestrial jarrings, of 
any that have ever come to us. And the reason why his 
teachings seemed folly to the Jews, was because he carried that 
Heaven’s time in Jerusalem, while the Jews carried Jerusalem 
time there. Did he not expressly say — My wisdom (time) is 
not of this world ? But whatever is really peculiar in the 
wisdom of Christ seems precisely the same folly to-day as it 
did 1850 years ago. Because, in all that interval his be- 
queathed chronometer has still preserved its original Heaven’s 
time, and the general Jerusalem of this world has likewise 
carefully preserved its own. 


288 


P I E ERE. 


“ But though the chronometer carried from Greenwich to 
China, should truly exhibit in China what the time may be at 
Greenwich at any moment; yet, though thereby it must 
necessarily contradict China time, it does by no means thence 
follow, that with respect to China, the China watches are at all 
out of the way. Precisely the reverse. For the fact of that 
variance is a presumption that, with respect to China, the 
Chinese watches must be all right ; and consequently as the 
China watches are right as to China, so the Greenwich chro- 
nometers must be wrong as to China. Besides, of what use to 
the Chinaman would a Greenwich chronometer, keeping Green- 
wich time, be? Were he thereby to regulate his daily actions, 
he would be guilty of all manner of absurdities : — ^going to 
bed at noon, say, when his neighbors would be sitting down to 
dinner. And thus, though the earthly wisdom of man be 
heavenly folly to God ; so also, conversely, is the heavenly 
wisdom of God an earthly folly to man. Literally speaking, 
this is so. Nor does the God at the heavenly Greenwich ex- 
pect common men to keep Greenwich wisdom in this remote 
Chinese world of ours ; because such a thing were unprofitable 
for them here, and, indeed, a falsification of Himself, inasmuch 
as in that case, China time would be identical with Greenwich 
time, which would make Greenwich time wrong. 

“But why then does God now and then send a heavenly 
chronometer (as a meteoric stone) into the world, uselessly as 
it would seem, to give the lie to all the world’s time-keepers ? 
Because he is unwilling to leave man without some occasional 
testimony to this : — that though man’s Chinese notions of 
things may answer well enough here, they are by no means 
universally applicable, and that the central Greenwich in which 
He dwells goes by a somewhat diflerent method from this 
world. And yet it follows not from this, that God’s truth is 
one thing and man’s truth another ; but — as above hinted, 


PIE R RE. 


289 


and as will be further elucidated in subsequent lectures — by 
their very contradictions they are made to correspond. 

“ By inference it follows, also, that he who finding in himself 
a chronometrical soul, seeks practically to force that heavenly 
time upon the earth ; in such an attempt he can never succeed, 
with an absolute and essential success. And as for himself, if 
he seek to regulate his own daily conduct by it, he will but 
array all men’s earthly time-keepers against him, and thereby 
work himself woe and death. Both these things are plainly 
evinced in the character and fate of Christ, and the past and 
present condition of the religion he taught. But here one 
thing is to be especially observed. Though Christ encountered 
woe in both the precept and the practice of his chronometricals, 
yet did he remain throughout entirely without folly or sin. 
Whereas, almost invariably, with inferior beings, the absolute 
effort to live in this world according to the strict letter of the 
chronometricals is, somehow, apt to involve those inferior 
beings eventually in strange, unique follies and sins, unimagined 
before. It is the story of the Ephesian matron, allegorized. 

“ To any earnest man of insight, a faithful contemplation of 
these ideas concerning Chronometricals and Horologicals, will 
serve to render provisionally far less dark ^ome few of the 
otherwise obscurest things which have hitherto tormented the 
honest-thinking men of all ages What man who carries a 
heavenly soul in him, has not groaned to perceive, that unless 
he committed a sort of suicide as to the practical things of this 
world, he never can hope to regulate his earthly conduct by 
that same heavenly soul ? And yet by an infallible instinct he 
knows, that that monitor can not be wrong in itself. 

“ And where is the earnest and righteous philosopher, gentle- 
men, who looking right and left, and up and down, through all 
the ages of the world, the present included ; where is there such 
an one who has not a thousand times been struck with a sort 
of infidel idea, that whatever other worlds God may be Lord of, 

N 


290 


P I E B R E. 


he is not the Lord of this ; for else this world would seem to 
give the lie to Him ; so utterly repugnant seem its ways to the 
instinctively known ways of Heaven. But it is not, and can 
not be so ; nor will he who regards this chronometrical cohceit 
aright, ever more be conscious of that horrible idea. For he 
will then see, or seem to see, that this world’s seeming incom- 
patibility with God, absolutely results from its meridianal cor- 
respondence with him. 

# ^ * 

“ This chronometrical conceit does by no means involve the 
justification of all the acts which wicked men may perform. For 
in their wickedness downright wicked men sin as much against 
their own horologes, as against the heavenly chronometer. That 
this is so, their spontaneous liability to remorse does plainly 
evince. Ho, this conceit merely goes to show, that for the mass 
of men, the highest abstract heavenly righteousness is not only 
impossible, but would be entirely out of place, and positively 
wrong in a world like this. To turn the left cheek if the right 
be smitten, is chronometrical ; hence, no average son of man 
ever did such a thing. To give all that thou hast to the poor, 
this too is chronometrical ; hence no average son of man ever 
did such a thing. Nevertheless, if a man gives with a certain 
self-considerate generosity to the poor; abstains from doing 
downright ill to any man ; does his convenient best in a gen- 
eral way to do good to his whole race ; takes watchful loving 
care of his wife and children, relatives, and friends ; is perfectly 
tolerant to all other men’s opinions, whatever they may be ; is 
an honest dealer, an honest citizen, and all that ; and more es- 
pecially if he believe that there is a God for infidels, as well as 
for believers, and acts upon that belief; then, though such a' 
man falls infinitely short of the chronometrical standard, 
though all his actions are entirely horologic ; — yet such a man 
need never lastingly despond, because he is sometimes guilty of 
some minor offense: — hasty words, impulsively returning a 


PIEKRE. 


291 


blow, fits of domestic petulance, selfish enjoyment of a glass of 
wine while he knows there are those around him who lack a 
loaf of bread. I say he need never lastingly despond on ac- 
count of his pei’petual liability to these things ; because not to 
do them, and their like, would be to be an angel, a chronome- 
ter ; whereas, he is a man and a horologe. 

“ Yet does the horologe itself teach, that all liabihties to these 
things should be checked as much as possible, though it is cer- 
tain they can never be utterly eradicated. They are only to be 
checked, then, because, if entirely unrestrained, they would 
finally run into utter selfishness and human demonism, which, 
as before hinted, are not by any means justified by the horo- 
loge. 

“ In short, this Chronometncal and Horological conceit, in sum, 
seems to teach this : — That in things terrestrial (horological) a 
man must not be governed by ideas celestial (chronometrical) ; 
that certain minor self-renunciations in this life his own mere 
instinct for his own every-day general well-being will teach him 
to make, but he must by no means make a complete uncondi- 
tional sacrifice of himself in behalf of any other being, or any 
cause, or any conceit. (For, does aught else completely and 
unconditionally sacrifice itself for him ? God’s own sun does 
not abate one tittle of its heat in July, however you swoon 
with that heat in the sun. And if it did abate its- heat on your 
behalf, then the wheat and the rye would not ripen ; and so, 
for the incidental benefit of one, a whole population would 
sufier.) 

“ A virtuous expediency, then, seems the highest deshable or 
attainable earthly excellence for the mass of men, and is the 
only earthly excellence that their Creator intended for them. 
When they go to heaven, it will be quite another thing. There, 
they can freely turn the left cheek, because there the right 
cheek will never be smitten. There they can freely give all to 
the poor, for there there will be no poor to give to. A due ap- 


292 


PIERRE. 


predation of this matter will do good to man. For, hitherto, 
being authoritatively taught by his dogmatical teachers that he 
must, while on earth, aim at heaven, and attain it, too, in all 
his earthly acts, on pain of eternal wrath ; and finding by ex- 
perience that this is utterly impossible ; in his despair, he is too 
apt to run clean away into all manner of moral abandonment, 
self-deceit, and hypocrisy (cloaked, however, mostly under an 
aspect of the most respectable devotion) ; or else he openly 
runs, like a mad dog, into atheism. Whereas, let men be 
taught those Chronometricals and Horologicals, and while still 
retaining every common-sense incentive to whatever of virtue 
be practicable and desirable, and having these incentives strength- 
ened, too, by the consciousness of powers to attain their mark ; 
then there would be an end to that fatal despair of becoming 
at all good, which has too often proved the vice-producing re- 
sult in many minds of the undiluted chronometrical doctrines 
hitherto taught to mankind. But if any man say, that such a 
doctrine as this I lay down is false, is impious ; I would chari- 
tably refer that man to the history of Christendom for the last 
1800 years ; and ask him, whether, in spite of all the maxims 
of Christ, that history is not just as full of blood, violence, 
wrong, and iniquity of every kind, as any previous portion of 
the world’s story ? Therefore, it follows, that so far as practical 
results are concerned — regarded in a purely earthly light — the 
only great original moral doctrine of Christianity (i. e. the 
chronometrical gratuitous return of good for evil, as distin- 
guished from the horological forgiveness of injuries taught by 
some of the Pagan philosophers), has been found (horologically) 
a false one ; because after 1800 years’ inculcation from tens of 
thousands of pulpits, it has proved entirely impracticable. 

“ I but lay down, then, what the best mortal men do daily 
practice ; and what all really wicked men are very far re- 
moved from. I present consolation to the earnest man, who, 
among all his human frailties, is still agonizingly conscious of 


PIERRE. 


298 


the beauty of chronometrical excellence. I hold up a prac- 
ticable vu’tue to the vicious ; and interfere not with the eternal 
truth, that, sooner or later, in all cases, downright vice is down- 
right woe. 

“Moreover: if ” 

But here the pamphlet was tom, and came to a most untidy 
termination. 


BOOK XV. 


THE COUSINS. 


I. 

Though resolved to face all out to the last, at whatever des- 
perate hazard, Pierre had not started for the city without some 
reasonable plans, both with reference to his more immediate 
circumstances, and his ulterior condition. 

There resided in the city a cousin of his, Glendinning Stanly, 
better known in the general family as Glen Stanly, and by 
Pierre, as Cousin Glen. Like Pierre, he was an only son ; his 
parents had died in his early childhood ; and within the pres- 
ent year he had returned from a protracted sojourn in Europe, 
to enter, at the age of twenty-one, into the untrammeled pos- 
session of a noble property, which in the hands of faithful guar- 
dians, had largely accumulated. 

In their boyhood and earlier adolescence, Pierre and Glen 
had cherished a much more than cousinly attachment. At the 
age of ten, they had furnished an example of the truth, that 
the friendship of fine-hearted, generous boys, nurtured amid the 
romance-engendering comforts and elegancies of life, sometimes 
transcends the bounds of mere boyishness, and revels for a 
while in the empyrean of a love which only comes short, by one 
degree, of the sweetest sentiment entertained between the sexes. 
Nor is this boy-love without the occasional fillips and spici- 


PIERRE. 


295 


nesses, which at times, by an apparent abatement, enhance the 
permanent delights of those more advanced lovers who love be- 
neath the cestus of Venus. Jealousies are felt. The sight of 
another lad too much consorting with the hoy’s beloved object, 
shall fill him with emotions akin to those of Othello’s ; a fan- 
cied slight, or lessening of the every-day indications of warm 
feelings, shall prompt him to bitter upbraidings and reproaches ; 
or shall plunge him into evil moods, for which grim solitude 
only is congenial. 

Nor are the letters of Aphroditean devotees more charged 
with headlong vows and protestations, more cross-written and 
crammed with discursive sentimentalities, more undeviating in 
their semi-weekliness, or dayliness, as the case may be, than 
are the love-friendship missives of boys. Among those bun- 
dles of papers which Pierre, in an ill hour, so frantically de- 
stroyed in the chamber of the inn, were two large packages of 
letters, densely written, and in many cases inscribed crosswise 
throughout with red ink upon black ; so that the love in those 
lettei-s was two layers deep, and one pen and one pigment 
were insufficient to paint it. The first package contained the 
letters of Glen to Pierre, the other those of Pierre to Glen, 
which, just prior to Glen’s departure for Europe, Pierre had 
obtained from him, in order to re-read them in his absence, 
and so fortify himself the more in his affection, by reviving 
reference to the young, ardent hours of its earliest manifesta- 
tions. 

But as the advancing fruit itself extrudes the beautiful blos- 
som, so in many cases, does the eventual love for the other sex 
forever dismiss the preliminary love-friendship of boys. The 
mere outer friendship may in some degree — greater or less — 
survive ; but the singular love in it has perishingly dropped 
away. 

If in the eye of unyielding reality and truth, the earthly 
heart of man do indeed ever fix upon some one woman, to 


296 


P I E K R E. 


whom alone, thenceforth eternally to be a devotee, without a 
single shadow of the misgiving of its faith ; and who, to him, 
does perfectly embody his finest, loftiest dream of feminine love- 
liness, if this indeed be so — and may Heaven grant that it be 
— ^nevertheless, in metropolitan cases, the love of the most sin- 
gle-eyed lover, almost invariably, is nothing more than the ulti- 
mate settling of innumerable wandering glances upon some one 
specific object ; as admonished, that the wonderful scope and 
variety of female loveliness, if too long suffered to sway us with- 
out decision, shall finally confound all power of selection. The 
confirmed bachelor is, in America, at least, quite as often the 
victim of a too profound appreciation of the infinite charming- 
ness of woman, as made solitary for life by the legitimate em- 
pire of a cold and tasteless temperament. 

Though the peculiar heart-longings pertaining to his age, 
had at last found their glowing response in the bosom of Lucy ; 
yet for some period prior to that, Pierre had not been insensi- 
ble to the miscellaneous promptings of the passion. So that 
even before he became a declarative lover. Love had yet made 
him her general votary ; and so already there had gradually 
come a cooling over that ardent sentiment w^hich in earlier 
years he had cherished for Glen. 

All round and round does the world lie as in a sharp-shoot- 
er’s ambush, to pick off the beautiful illusions of youth, by the 
pitiless cracking rifles of the realities of the age. If the general 
love for women, had in Pierre sensibly modified his particular 
sentiment toward Glen; neither had the thousand nameless 
fascinations of the then brilliant paradises of France and Italy, 
failed to exert their seductive influence on many of the previous 
feelings of Glen. For as the very best advantages of life are 
not without some envious drawback, so it is among the evils of 
enlarged foreign travel, that in young and unsolid minds, it dis 
lodges some of the finest feelings of the home-born nature ; re 
placing them with a fastidious superciliousness, which like tb 


PIEERE. 


297 


alledged bigoted Federalism of old times would not — according 
to a political legend — grind its daily coffee in any mill save of 
European manufacture, and was satirically said to have thought 
of importing European air for domestic consumption. The 
mutually curtailed, lessening, long-postponed, and at last alto- 
gether ceasing letters of Pierre and Glen were the melancholy 
attestations of a fact, which perhaps neither of them took very 
severely to heart, as certainly, concerning it, neither took the 
other to task. 

In the earlier periods of that strange transition from the 
generous impulsiveness of youth to the provident circumspect- 
ness of age, there generally intervenes a brief pause of unpleas- 
ant reconsidering ; when finding itself all wide of its former 
spontaneous self, the soul hesitates to commit itself wholly to 
selfishness ; more than repents its wanderings ; — yet all this is 
but transient ; and again burned on by the swift cun-ent of 
life, the prompt-hearted boy scarce longer is to be recognized in 
matured man, — very slow to feel, deliberate even in love, and 
statistical even in piety. During the sway of this peculiar pe- 
riod, the boy shall still make some strenuous efforts to retrieve 
his departing spontanieties ; but so alloyed are all such endeav- 
ors with the incipiencies of selfishness, that they were best not 
made at all ; since too often they seem but empty and self-de- 
ceptive sallies, or still worse, the merest hypocritical assump- 
tions. 

Upon the return of Glen from abroad, the commonest cour- 
tesy, not to say the blood-relation between them, prompted 
Pierre to welcome him home, with a letter, which .though not 
over-long, and little enthusiastic, still breathed a spirit of cous- 
inly consideration and kindness, pervadingly touched by the 
then naturally frank and all-attractive spirit of Pierre. To this, 
the less earnest and now Europeanized Glen had replied in a 
letter all sudden suavity ; and in a strain of artistic artlessness, 
mourned the apparent decline of their friendship ; yet fondly 

N* 


298 


PIERRE. 


trusted that now, notwithstanding their long separation, it 
would revive with added sincerity. Yet upon accidentally fix- 
ing his glance upon the opening salutation of this delicate mis- 
sive, Pierre thought he perceived certain, not wholly disguisahle 
chirogi’aphic tokens, that the “ My very dear Pierre,” with which 
the letter seemed to have been begun, had originally been 
written “ Dear Pierre but that when all was concluded, and 
Glen’s signature put to it, then the ardent words “ My very” 
had been prefixed to the reconsidered “ Dear Pierre ;” a casual 
supposition, which possibly, however unfounded, materially re- 
tarded any answering warmth in Pierre, lest his generous flame 
should only embrace a flaunted feather. Nor was this idea 
altogether unreinforced, when on the reception of a second, and 
now half-business letter (of which mixed sort nearly all the sub- 
sequent ones were), from Glen, he found that the “ My veiy 
dear Pierre” had already retreated into “ My dear Pierre ;” and 
on a third occasion, into “ Dear Pierre ;” and on a fourth, 
had made a forced and very spirited advanced march up to 
“ My dearest Pierre.” All of which fluctuations augured ill for 
the determinateness of that love, which, however immensely 
devoted to one cause, could yet hoist and sail under the flags 
of all nations. Nor could he but now applaud a still subse- 
quent letter from Glen, which abruptly, and almost with appa- 
rent indecorousness, under the circumstances, commenced the 
strain of friendship without any overture of salutation what- 
ever ; as if at last, owing to its infinite delicateness, entirely 
hopeless of precisely defining the nature of their mystical love, 
Glen chose rather to leave that precise definition to the sympa- 
thetical heart and imagination of Pierre; while he himself 
would go on to celebrate the general relation, by many a su- 
gared sentence of miscellaneous devotion. It was a little curious 
and rather sardonically diverting, to compare these masterly, 
yet not wholly successful, and indeterminate tactics of the 
accomplished Glen, with the unfaltering stream of Beloved 


PIERRE. 


299 


Pierres^ which not only flowed along the top margin of all 
his earlier letters, but here and there, from their subterra- 
nean channel, flashed out in bright intervals, through all the 
succeeding lines. Nor had the chance recollection of these 
things at all restrained the reckless hand of Pierre, when he 
threw the whole package of letters, both new and old, into that 
most honest and summary of all elements, which is neither a 
respecter of persons, nor a finical critic of what manner of 
writings it burns ; but like ultimate Truth itself, of which it is 
the eloquent symbol, consumes all, and only consumes. 

When the betrothment of Pierre to Lucy had become an 
acknowledged thing, the courtly Glen, besides the customary 
felicitations upon that event, had not omitted so fit an oppor- 
tunity to re-tender to his cousin all his previous jars of honey 
and treacle, accompanied by additional boxes of candied citron 
and plums. Pierre thanked him kindly ; but in certain little 
roguish ambiguities begged leave, on the ground of cloying, to 
return him inclosed by far the greater portion of his present ; 
whose non-substantialness was allegorically typified in the con- 
taining letter itself, prepaid with only the usual postage. 

True love, as every one knows, will still withstand many re- 
pulses, even though rude. But whether it was the love or the 
politeness of Glen, which on this occasion proved invincible, is 
a matter we will not discuss. Certain it was, that quite un- 
daunted, Glen nobly returned to the charge, and in a very 
prompt and unexpected answer, extended to Pierre all the 
courtesies of the general city, and all the hospitalities of five 
sumptuous chambers, which he and his luxurious environments 
contrived nominally to occupy in the most fashionable private 
hotel of a very opulent town. Nor did Glen rest here ; but 
like" Napoleon, now seemed bent upon gaining the battle by 
throwing all his regiments upon one point of attack, and gain- 
ing that point at all hazards. Hearing of some rumor at the 
tables of his relatives that the day was being fixed for the posi- 


300 


PIERRE. 


tive nuptials of Pierre ; Glen culled all his Parisian portfolios 
for his rosiest sheet, and with scented ink, and a pen of gold, 
indited a most burnished and redolent letter, w'hich, after in- 
voking all the blessings of Apollo and Venus, and the Nine 
Muses, and the Cardinal Virtues upon the coming event ; con- 
cluded at last with a really magnificent testimonial to his love. 

According to this letter, among his other real estate in the 
city, Glen had inherited a very charming, little, old house, 
completely furnished in the style of the last century, in a 
quarter of the city which, though now not so garishly fashion- 
able as of yore, still in its quiet secludedness, possessed great 
attractions for the retired billings and cooings of a honeymoon. 
Indeed he begged leave now to christen it the Cooery, and if 
after his wedding jaunt, Pierre would deign to visit the city 
with his bride for a month or two’s sojourn, then the Cooery 
would be but too happy in affording him a harbor. His sweet 
cousin need be under no apprehension. Owing to the absence 
of any fit applicant for it, the house had now long been with- 
out a tenant, save an old, confidential, bachelor clerk of his 
father’s, who on a nominal rent, and more by w^ay of safe-keep- 
ing to the house than any thing else, was now hanging up his 
well-furbished hat in its hall. This accommodating old clerk 
would quickly unpeg his beaver at the first hint of new occu- 
pants. Glen w’ould charge himself with supplying the house 
in advance with a proper retinue of servants ; fires would be 
made in the long-unoccupied chambers ; the venerable, gro- 
tesque, old mahoganies, and marbles, and mirror-frames, and 
moldings could be very soon dusted and burnished ; the 
kitchen was amply pro\ided with the necessary utensils for 
cooking ; the strong box of old silver immemorially pertaining 
to the mansion, could be readily carted round from the vaults 
of the neighboi-ing Bank ; while the hampers of old china, still 
retained in the house, needed but little trouble to unpack ; so 
that silver and china would soon stand assorted in their appro- 


P I E ERE. 


801 


priate closets ; at the turning of a faucet in the cellar, the best 
of the city’s water would not fail to contribute its ingredient to 
the concocting of a welcoming glass of negus before retiring on 
the first night of their anival. 

The over-fastidiousness of some unhealthily critical minds, as 
well as the moral pusillanimity of others, equally bars the ac- 
ceptance of eftectually substantial favors from persons whose 
motive in profiering them, is not altogether clear and unim- 
peachable ; and toward whom, perhaps, some prior coolness or 
indifterence has been shown. But when the acceptance of such 
a favor would be really convenient and desirable to the one 
party, and completely unattended with any serious distress to 
the other ; there would seem to be no sensible objection to an 
immediate embrace of the oiGfer. And when the acceptor is in 
rank and fortune the general equal of the profierer, and perhaps 
his superior, so that any courtesy he receives, can be amply re- 
turned in the natural course of future events, then all motives 
to decline are very materially lessened. And as for the 
thousand inconceivable finicalnesses of small pros and cons 
about imaginary fitnesses, and proprieties, and self-consistencies ; 
thank heaven, in the hour of heart-health, none such shilly- 
shallying sail-trimmers ever balk the onward course of a blutf- 
minded man. He takes the world as it is ; and carelessly ac- 
commodates himself to its whimsical humors ; nor ever feels 
any compunction at receiving the greatest possible favors from 
those who are as able to grant, as free to bestow. He himself 
bestows upon occasion ; so that, at bottom, common charity 
steps in to dictate a favorable consideration for all possible prof 
ferings ; seeing that the acceptance shall only the more enrich 
him, indirectly, for new and larger beneficences of his own. 

And as for those who noways pretend with themselves to 
regulate their deportment by considerations of genuine benevo- 
lence, and to whom such courteous proflerings hypocritically 
come fi-om pereons whom they suspect for secret enemies ; then 


302 


PIERKE. 


to such minds not only -will their own worldly tactics at once 
forbid the uncivil blank repulse of such offers ; but if they are 
secretly malicious as well as frigid, or if they are at all capable 
of being fully gratified by the sense of concealed superiority and 
mastership (which precious few men are) then how delightful 
for such persons under the guise of mere acquiescence in his 
own voluntary civilities, to make genteel use of their foe. For 
one would like to know, what were foes made for except to be 
used ? In the rude ages men hunted and javelined the tiger, 
because they hated him for a mischief-minded wild-beast ; but 
in these enlightened times, though we love the tiger as little as 
ever, still we mostly hunt him for the sake of his skin. A wise 
man then will wear his tiger ; every morning put on his tiger 
for a robe to keep him warm and adorn him. In this view, foes 
are far more desirable than friends ; for who would hunt and 
kill his own faithful affectionate dog for the sake of his skin ? 
and is a dog’s skin as valuable as a tiger’s ? Cases there are 
where it becomes soberly advisable, by direct arts to convert some 
well-wishers into foes. It is false that in point of policy a man 
should never make enemies. As well-wishers some men may 
not only be nugatory but positive obstacles in your peculiar 
plans ; but as foes you may subordinately cement them into 
your general design. 

But into these ulterior refinements of cool Tuscan policy, 
Pierre as yet had never become initiated ; his experiences hith- 
erto not having been varied and ripe enough for that ; besides, 
he had altogether too much generous blood in his heart. Nev- 
ertheless, thereafter, in a less immature hour, though still he 
shall not have the heart to practice upon such maxims as the 
above, yet shall he have the brain thoroughly to comprehend 
their practicability ; which is not always the case. And gene- 
rally, in worldly wisdom, men will deny to one the possession 
of all insight, which one does not by his every-day outward life 
practically reveal. It is a very common error of some un- 


P I E RRE. 


303 


scrupulously infidel-minded, selfish, unprincipled, or downright 
knavish men, to suppose that believing men, or benevolent- 
hearted men, or good men, do not know enough to be unscru- 
pulously selfish, do not know enough to be unscrupulous 
knaves. And thus — thanks to the world ! — are there many spies 
in the world’s camp, who are mistaken for strolling simpletons. 
And these strolling simpletons seem to act upon the principle, 
that in certain things, we do not so much learn, by showing 
that already we know a vast deal, as by negatively seeming 
rather ignorant. But here we press upon the frontiers of that 
sort of wisdom, which it is veiy well to possess, but not sagacious 
to show that you possess. Still, men there are, who having 
quite done with the world, all its mere worldly contents are 
become so far indifferent, that they care little of what mere 
worldly imprudence they may be guilty. 

Now, if it were not conscious considerations like the really 
benevolent or neutral ones first mentioned above, it was cer- 
tainly something akin to them, which had induced Pierre to 
return a straightforward, manly, and entire acceptance to his 
cousin of the offer of the house ; thanking him, over and 
over, for his most supererogatory kindness concerning the pre- 
engagement of servants and so forth, and the setting in order 
of the silver and china ; but reminding him, nevertheless, that 
he had overlooked all special mention of wines, and begged 
him to store the bins with a few of the very best brands. He 
would likewise be obliged, if he would personally purchase at 
a certain celebrated grocer’s, a small bag of undoubted Mocha 
coffee ; but Glen need not order it to be roasted or ground, 
because Pierre preferred that both those highly important and 
flavor-deciding operations should be performed instantaneously 
previous to the final boiling and serving. Nor did he say 
that he w^uld pay for the wines and the Mocha ; he contented 
himself with merely stating the remissness on the part of his 
cousin, and pointing out the best way of remedying it. 


304 


PIE BE E. 


He concluded his letter by intimating that though the rumor 
of a set day, and a near one, for his nuptials, was unhappily 
but ill-founded, yet he would not hold Glen’s generous offer as 
merely based upon that presumption, and consequently falling 
with it ; hut on the contrary, would consider it entirely good 
for whatever time it might prove available to Pierre. He was 
betrothed beyond a peradventure ; and hoped to be married 
ere death. Meanwhile, Glen would further oblige him by 
giving the confidential clerk a standing notice to quit. 

Though at first quite amazed at this letter, — for indeed, his 
offer might possibly have proceeded as much from ostentation 
as any thing else, nor had he dreamed of so unhesitating an 
acceptance, — Pierre’s cousin was too much of a precocious 
young man of the world, disclosedly to take it in any other 
than a very friendly, and cousinly, and humorous, and yet 
practical wa)'' ; which he plainly evinced by a reply far more 
sincere and every way creditable, apparently, both to his heart 
and head, than any letter he had written to Pierre since the 
days of their boyhood. And thus, by the blufihess and, in 
some sort, uncompunctuousness of Pierre, this very artificial 
youth was well betrayed into an act of effective kindness; 
being forced now to drop the empty mask of ostentation, and 
put on the solid hearty features of a genuine face. And just 
so, are some people in the world to be joked into occasional 
effective goodness, when all coyness, and coolness, all resent- 
ments, and all solemn preaching, would fail. 


II. 

But little would we comprehend the peculiar relation be- 
tween Pierre and Glen-^a relation involving in the end the 
most serious results — were there not here thrown over the 
whole equivocal, preceding account of it, another and more 


PIERRE. 


305 


comprehensive equivocalness, which shall absorb all minor ones 
in itself ; and so make one pervading ambiguity the only possi- 
ble explanation for all the ambiguous details. 

It had long been imagined by Pierre, that prior to his own 
special devotion to Lucy, the splendid Glen had not been en- 
tirely insensible to her surprising charms. Yet this conceit in 
its incipiency, he knew not how to account for. Assuredly his 
cousin had never in the slightest conceivable hint betrayed 
it ; and as for Lucy, the same intuitive delicacy which forever 
forbade Pierre to question her on the subject, did equally close 
her own voluntary bps. Between Pierre and Lucy, delicateness 
put her sacred signet on this chest of secrecy ; which hke the wax 
of an executor upon a desk, though capable of being melted 
into nothing by the smallest candle, for all this, still possesses to 
the reverent the prohibitive virtue of inexorable bars and bolts. 

If Pierre superficially considered the deportment of Gfen 
toward him, therein he could find no possible warrant for in- 
dulging the suspicious idea. Doth jealousy smile so benig- 
nantly and offer its house to the bride ? Still, on the other 
hand, to quit the mere surface of the deportment of Glen, and 
penetrate beneath its brocaded vesture ; there Pierre sometimes 
seemed to see the long-lurking and yet unhealed wound of all 
a rejected lover^s most rankling detestation of a supplanting 
rival, only intensified by their former friendship, and the imim- 
pairable blood-relation between them. Now, viewed by the 
light of this master-solution, all the singular enigmas in Glen ; 
his capriciousness in the matter of the epistolary — “ Dear 
Pierres’” and “ Dearest Pierres the mercurial fall from the 
fever-heat of cordiality, to below the Zero of indifference ; then 
the contrary rise to fever-heat ; and, above all, his emphatic 
redundancy of devotion so soon as the positive espousals of 
Pierre seemed on the point of consummation ; thus read, all 
these riddles apparently found their cunning solution. For the 
deeper that some men feel a secret and poignant feeling, the 


306 


PIERRE. 


higher they pile the belying surfaces. The friendly deport- 
ment of Glen then was to be considered as in direct proportion 
to his hoarded hate ; and the climax of that hate was evinced 
in throwing open his house to the bride. Yet if hate was the 
abstract cause, hate could not be the immediate motive of the 
conduct of Glen. Is hate so hospitable ? The immediate motive 
of Glen then must be the intense desire to disguise from the 
wide world, a fact unspeakably humiliating to his gold-laced 
and haughty soul : the fact that in the profoundest desire of 
his heart, Pierre had so victoriously supplanted him. Yet was 
it that very artful deportment in Glen, which Glen profoundly 
assumed to this grand end ; that consummately artful deport- 
ment it was, which first obtruded upon Pierre the surmise, 
which by that identical method his cousin was so absorbedly 
intent upon rendering impossible to him. Hence we here see 
that as in the negative way the secrecy of any strong emotion is 
exceedingly difi&cult to be kept lastingly private to one’s own 
bosom by any human being ; so it is one of the most fruitless 
undertakings in the world, to attempt by aflSrmative assump- 
tions to tender to men, the precisely opposite emotion as 
yours. Therefore the final wisdom decrees, that if you have 
aught which you desire to keep a secret to yourself, be a 
Quietist there, and do and say nothing at all about it. For 
among all the poor chances, this is the least poor. Pretensions 
and substitutions are only the recourse of under-graduates in 
the science of the world ; in which science, on his own ground, 
my Lord Chesterfield, is the poorest possible preceptor. The 
earliest instinct of the child, and the ripest experience of age, 
unite in affirming simplicity to be the truest and profoundest 
part for man. Likewise this simplicity is so universal and all- 
containing as a rule for human life, that the subtlest bad man, 
and the purest good man, as well as the profoundest wise man^ 
do all alike present it on that side which they socially turn to 
the inquisitive and unscrupulous world. 


PIERRE. 


307 


III. 

Now the matter of the house had remained in precisely the 
above-stated awaiting predicament, down to the time of Pierre’s 
great life- revolution, the receipt of Isabel’s letter. And though, 
indeed, Pierre could not but naturally hesitate at still accepting 
the use of the dwelling, under the widely difierent circum- 
stances in which he now found himself ; and though at first the 
strongest possible spontaneous objections on the ground of per- 
sonal independence, pride, and general scorn, all clamorously 
declared in his breast against such a coui’se ; yet, finally, the 
same uncompunctuous, ever-adaptive sort of motive which had 
induced his original acceptation, prompted him, in the end, still 
to maintain it unrevoked. It would at once set him at rest 
from all immediate tribulations of mere bed and board ; and 
by affording him a shelter, for an indefinite term, enable him 
the better to look about him, and consider what could best be 
done to further the permanent comfort of those whom Pate had 
intrusted to his charge. 

Irrespective, it would seem, of that wide general awaking of 
his profounder being, consequent upon the extraordinary trials 
he had so aggregatively encountered of late ; the thought was 
indignantly suggested to him, that the world must indeed be 
organically despicable, if it held that an offer, superfluously ac- 
cepted in the hour of his abundance, should now, be rejected 
in that of his utmost need. And without at all imputing any 
singularity of benevolent-mindedness to his cousin, he did not 
for a moment question, that under the changed aspect of 
affaii-s, Glen would at least pretend the more eagerly to wel- 
come him to the house, now that the mere thing of apparent 
courtesy had become transformed into something like a thing 
of positive and urgent necessity. When Pierre also considered 
that not himself only was concerned, but likewise two peculiarly 


308 


PIERRE. 


helpless fellow-beings, one of them bound to him from the first 
by the most sacred ties, and lately inspiring an emotion which 
passed all human precedent in its mixed and mystical import ; 
these added considerations completely overthrew in Pierre all 
remaining dictates of his vague pride and false independence, if 
such indeed had ever been his. 

Though the interval elapsing between his decision to depart 
with his companions for the city, and his actual start in the 
coach, had not enabled him to receive any replying word from 
his cousin ; and though Pierre knew better than to expect it ; 
yet a preparative letter to him he had sent ; and did not doubt 
that this proceeding would prove well-advised in the end. 

In naturally strong-minded men, however young and inex- 
perienced in some things, those' great and sudden emergencies, 
which but confound the timid and the weak, only serve to call 
forth all their generous latentness, and teach them, as by inspi- 
ration, extraordinary maxims of conduct, whose counterpart, in 
other men, is only the result of a long, variously-tried and 
pains-taking life. One of those maxims is, that when, through 
whatever cause, w^e are suddenly translated from opulence to 
need, or from a fair fame to a foul ; and straightway it becomes 
* necessary not to contradict the thing — so far at least as the 
mere imputation goes, — to some one previously entertaining high 
conventional regard for us, and from whom we would now 
solicit some genuine helping offices ; then, all explanation or pal- 
ation should be scorned ; promptness, boldness, utter gladia- 
torianism, and a defiant non-humility should mark every sylla- 
ble we breathe, and every line we trace. 

The preparative letter of Pierre to Glen, plunged at once 
into the very heart of the matter, and was perhaps the briefest 
letter he had ever written him. Though by no means are 
such characteristics invariable exponents of the predominant 
mood or general disposition of a man (since so accidental a 
thing as a numb finger, or a bad quill, or poor ink, or squalid 


P I E R K E. 


809 


paper, or a rickety desk may produce all sorts of modifications), 
yet in the present instance, the handwriting of Pien’e hap- 
pened plainly to attest and corroborate the spirit of his commu- 
nication. The sheet was large ; but the words were placarded 
upon it in heavy though rapid lines, only six or eight to the 
page. And as the footman of a haughty visitor — some Count 
or Duke — announces the chariot of his lord by a thunderous 
knock on the portal ; so to Glen did Pierre, in the broad, 
sweeping, and prodigious superscription of his letter, forewarn 
him what manner of man was on the road. 

In the moment of strong feeling a wonderful condensative- 
ness points the tongue and pen ; so that ideas, then enunciated 
sharp and quick as minute-guns, in some other hour of un- 
ruffledness or unstimulatedness, require considerable time and 
trouble to verbally recall. 

Hot here and now can we set down the precise contents of 
Pierre’s letter, without a tautology illy doing justice to the ideas 
themselves. And though indeed the dread of tautology be the 
continual torment of some earnest minds, and, as such, is sure- 
ly a weakness in them ; and though no wise man will wonder 
at conscientious Virgil all eager at death to burn his riEniad for 
a monstrous heap of inefficient superfluity ; yet not to dread 
tautology at times only belongs to those enviable dunces, whom 
the partial God hath blessed, over all the earth, with the inex- 
haustible self-riches of vanity, and folly and a blind self-com- 
placency. 

Some rumor of the discontinuance of his betrothment to 
Lucy Tartan ; of his already consummated marriage with a poor 
and friendless orphan ; of his mother’s disowning him conse- 
quent upon these events ; such rumors, Pierre now wrote to his 
cousin, would very probably, in the parlors of his city-relatives 
and acquaintances, precede his arrival in town. But he hinted 
no word of any possible commentary on these things. He 
simply went on to say, that now, through the fortune of life— 


310 


PIEEB E. 


which was but the proverbially unreliable fortune of war — ^he 
was, for the present, thrown entirely upon his own resources, 
both for his own support and that of his wife, as well as for 
the temporary maintenance of a girl, whom he had lately had 
excellent reason for taking under his especial protection. He 
proposed a permanent residence in the city ; not without some 
nearly quite settled plans as- to the procuring of a competent 
income, without any ulterior reference to any member of then* 
wealthy and widely ramified family. The house, whose tempo- 
rary occupancy Glen had before so handsomely proffered him, 
would now be doubly and trebly desirable to him. But the 
pre-engaged servants, and the old china, and the old silver, and 
the old wines, and the Mocha, were now become altogether un- 
necessary. Pierre would merely take the place — for a short in- 
terval — of the worthy old clerk ; and, so far as Glen was con- 
cerned, simply stand guardian of the dwelling, till his plans 
were matured. His cousin had originally made his most 
bounteous overture, to welcome the coming of the presumed 
bride of Pierre ; and though another lady had now taken her 
place at the altar, yet Pierre would still regard the offer of Glen 
as impersonal in that respect, and bearing equal reference to 
any young lady, who should prove her claim to the possessed 
hand of Pierre. 

Since there was no universal law of opinion in such matters, 
Glen, on general worldly grounds, might not consider the real 
Mrs. Glendinning altogether so suitable a match for Pierre, as 
he possibly might have held numerous other young ladies in 
his eye : nevertheless, Glen would find her ready to return 
with sincerity all his cousinly regard and attention. In conclu- 
sion, Pierre said, that he and his party meditated an immediate 
departure, and would very probably arrive in town in eight-and- 
forty hours after the mailing of the present letter. He there- 
fore begged Glen to see the more indispensable domestic appli- 
ances of the house set in some little order against their arrival ; 


PIERRE. 


311 


to have the rooms aired and lighted ; and also forewarn the 
confidential clerk of what he might soon expect. Then, with- 
out any tapering sequel of — “ Yours^ very truly and faithfully^ 
my dear Cousin Glenf he finished the letter with the abrupt 
• and isolated signature of — “Pierre.” 


BOOK XVI. 


FIRST NIGHT OF THEIR ARRIVAL IN THE CITY. 


I. 

The stage was belated. 

The country road they traveled entered the city by a remark- 
ably wide and winding street, a great thoroughfare for its less 
opulent inhabitants. There was no moon and few stars. It 
was that preluding hour of the night when the shops are just 
closing, and the aspect of almost every wayfarer, as he passes 
through the unequal light reflected from the windows, speaks 
of one hurrying not abroad, but homeward. Though the thor- 
oughfare was winding, yet no sweep that it made greatly ob- 
structed its long and imposing vista ; so that when the coach 
gained the top of the long and very gradual slope running to- 
ward the obscure heart of the town, and the twinkling per- 
spective of two long and parallel rows of lamps was revealed — 
lamps which seemed not so much intended to dispel the gene- 
ral gloom, as to show some dim path leading through it, into 
some gloom still deeper beyond — when the coach gained this 
critical point, the whole vast triangular town, for a moment, 
seemed dimly and despondently to capitulate to the eye. 

And now, ere descending the gradually-sloping declivity, and 
just on its summit as it were, the inmates of the coach, by nu- 
merous hard, painful joltings, and ponderous, dragging trund- 
lings, are suddenly made sensible of some gi’eat change in the 


PIERRE. 


318 


character of the road. The coach seems rolling over cannon- 
balls of all calibei-s. Grasping Pierre’s arm, Isabel eagerly and 
forebodingly demands what is the cause of this most strange 
and unpleasant transition. 

“ The pavements, Isabel ; this is the town.” 

Isabel was silent. 

But, the fii-st time for many weeks, Delly voluntarily spoke : 

“ It feels not so soft as the green sward. Master Pierre.” 

“ ISTo, Miss Ulver,” said Pierre, very bitterly, “ the buried 
hearts of some dead citizens have perhaps come to the sur- 
face.” 

“ Sir ?” said Delly. 

“ And are they so hard-hearted here ?” asked Isabel. 

“ Ask yonder pavements, Isabel. Milk dropt from the milk- 
man’s can in December, freezes not more quickly on those 
stones, than does snow-white innocence, if in poverty, it chance 
to fall in these streets.” 

“ Then God help my hard fate. Master Pierre,” sobbed Delly. 
“Wliy didst thou drag hither a poor outcast like me ?” 

“ Forgive me. Miss Ulver,” exclaimed Pierre, with sudden 
warmth, and yet most marked respect ; “ forgive me ; never 
yet have I entered the city by night, but, somehow, it made 
me feel both bitter and sad. Come, be cheerful, we shall soon 
be comfortably housed, and have our comfort all to ourselves; 
the old clerk I spoke to you about, is now doubtless ruefully 
eying his hat on the peg. Come, cheer up, Isabel ’tis a 
long ride, but here we are, at last. Come ! ’Tis not very far 
now to our welcome.” 

“ I hear a strange shuffling and clattering,” said Delly, with 
a shudder. 

“ It does not seem so light as just now,” said Isabel. ^ 

“ Yes,” returned Pierre, “ it is the shop-shutters being put 
on ; it is the locking, and bolting, and barring of windows and 
doors ; the town’s-people are going to their rest.” 

O 


814 


PIERRE. 


“ Please God they may find it !” sighed Delly. 

“ They lock and bar out, then, when they rest, do they, 
Pierre ?” said Isabel. 

“ Yes, and you were thinking that does not bode well for the 
welcome I spoke of.” 

“Thou read’st all my soul; yes, I was thinking of that. 
But whither lead these long, narrow, dismal side-glooms we 
pass every now and then ? What are they ? They seem ter- 
ribly still. I see scarce any body in them ; — there’s another, 
now. See how haggardly look its criss-cross, far-separate lamps. 
— What are these side-blooms, dear Pierre ; whither lead 
they ?” 

“ They are the thin tributaries, sweet Isabel, to the great 
Oronoco thoroughfare we are in ; and like true tributaries, they 
come from the far-hidden places ; from under dark beetling 
secrecies of mortar and stone ; through the long marsh-grasses 
of villainy, and by many a transplanted bough-beam, where 
the wretched have hung.” 

“ I know nothing of these things, Pierre. But I like not 
the town. Think’st thou, Pierre, the time will ever come when 
all the earth shall be paved ?” 

“ Thank God, that never can be !” 

“ These silent side-glooms are horrible ; — look ! Methinks, 
not for the world would I turn into one.” 

That moment the nigh fore-wheel sharply grated under the 
body of the coach. 

“ Courage !” cried Pierre, “ Ave are in it ! — Not so very soli- 
tary either ; here comes a traveler.” 

Hark, what is that ?” said Delly, “ that keen iron-ringing 
sound ? It passed us just now.” 

“ The keen traveler,” said Pierre, “ he has steel plates to his 
boot-heels ; — some tender-souled elder son, I suppose.” 

“ Pierre,” said Isabel, “ this silence is unnatural, is fearful. 
The forests are never so still.” 


PIEKRE. 


315 


“ Because brick and mortar have deeper secrets than wood 
or fell, sweet Isabel. But here we turn again ; now if I guess 
right, two more turns will bring us to the door. Courage, 
all will be well ; doubtless he has prepared a famous supper. 
Courage, Isabel. Come, shall it be tea or coffee ? Some bread, 
or crisp toast? We’ll have eggs, too; and some cold chicken, 
perhaps.” — Then muttering to himself — “ I hope not that, 
either ; no cold collations ! there’s too much of that in these 
paving-stones here, set out for the famishing beggars to eat. 
No. I won’t have the cold chicken.” Then aloud — “ But 
here we turn again ; yes, just as I thought. Ho, driver I” 
(thrusting his head out of the window) “ to the right ! to the 
right ! it should be on the right ! the first house with a light 
on the right !” 

“No lights yet but the street’s,” answered the surly voice of 
the driver. 

“ Stupid ! he has passed it — yes, yes — he has ! Ho ! ho ! 
stop ; turn back. Have you not passed lighted windows ?” 

“No lights but the street’s,” was the rough reply. “ What’s 
the number ? the number ? Don’t keep me beating about he'-*’ 
all night ! The number, I say !” 

“ I do not know it,” returned Pierre ; “ but I well know 
house ; you must have passed it, I repeat. You must turn 
back. Surely you have passed lighted windows ?” 

“Then them lights must burn black; there’s no lighted 
windows in the street ; I knows the city ; old maids lives here, 
and they are all to bed ; rest is warehouses.” 

“ Will you stop the coach, or not ?” cried Pierre, now in- 
censed at his surliness in continuing to drive on. 

“ I obeys orders : the first house with a light ; and ’cording 
to my reck’ning — though to be sure, I don’t know nothing of 
the city where I was born and bred all my life no, I knows 
nothing at all about it— ’cording to my reck’ning, the first light 
in this here street will be the watch-house of the ward— yes. 


816 


PIEKRE. 


there it is — all right ! cheap lodgings ye’ve engaged — ^nothing 
to pay, and wictuals in.” 

To certain temperaments, especially when previously agitated 
by any deep feeling, there is perhaps nothing more exasperat- 
ing, and which sooner explodes all self-command, than the 
coarse, jeering insolence of a porter, cabman, or hack-driver. 
Fetchers and carriers of the worst city infamy as many of them 
are ; professionally familiar with the most abandoned haunts ; 
in the heart of misery, they drive one of the most mercenary 
of all the trades of guilt. Day-dozers and sluggards on their 
lazy boxes in the sunlight, and felinely wakeful and cat-eyed 
in the dark ; most habituated to midnight streets, only trod by 
sneaking burglars, wantons, and debauchees ; often in actual 
pandering league with the most abhorrent sinks ; so that they 
are equally solicitous and suspectful that every customer they 
encounter in the dark, will prove a profligate or a knave ; 
this hideous tribe of ogres, and Charon feny-men to corruption 
and death, naturally slide into the most practically Calvinistical 
view of humanity, and hold every man at bottom a fit subject 
for the coarsest ribaldry and jest ; only fine coats and full pock- 
ets can whip such mangy hounds into decency. The least im- 
patience, any quickness of temper, a sharp remonstrating word 
from a customer in a seedy coat, or betraying any other evi- 
dence of poverty, however minute and indirect (for in that pe- 
cuniary respect they are the most piercing and infallible of all 
the judgers of men), will be almost sure to provoke, in such 
cases, their least endurable disdain. 

Perhaps it was the unconscious transfer to the stage-driver 
of some such ideas as these, which now prompted the highly 
irritated Pierre to an act, which, in a more benignant hour, his 
oetter reason would have restrained him from. 

He did not see the light to which the driver had referred ; 
and was heedless, in his sudden wrath, that the coach was now 
going slower in approaching it. Ere Isabel could prevent him. 


PIEHEE. 


817 


he burst open the door, and leaping to the pavement, sprang 
ahead of the horses, and violently reined back the leaders by 
their heads. The driver seized his four-in-hand whip, and with 
a volley of oaths was about striking out its long, coiling lash at 
Pierre, when his arm was arrested ,by a policeman, who sud- 
denly leaping on the stayed coach, commanded him to keep 
the peace. 

Speak ! what is the difficulty here ? Be quiet, ladies, noth- 
ing serious has happened. Speak you !” 

“ PieiTe ! Pierre !” cried the alai*med Isabel. In an instant 
Pierre was at her side by the window ; and now turning to the 
officer, explained to him that the driver had persisted in pass- 
ing the house at which he was ordered to stop. 

“ Then he shall turn to the right about with you, sir ; — in 
double quick time too ; do ye hear ? I know you rascals well 
enough. Turn about, you sir, and take the gentleman where 
he directed.” 

The cowed diiver was beginning a long string of criminating 
explanations, when turning to Pierre, the policeman calmly de- 
sired him to re-enter the coach ; he would see him safely at his 
destination ; and then seating himself beside the driver on the 
box, commanded him to tell the number given him by the gen- 
tleman. 

“ He don’t know no numbers — didn’t I say he didn’t — that’s 
what I got mad about.” 

“ Be still” — said the officer. “ Sir” — turning round and ad- 
dressing PieiTe within ; “ where do you wish to go ?” 

I do not know the number, but it is a house in this street ; 
we have passed it ; it is, I think, the fourth or fifth house this 
side of the last corner we turned. It must be lighted up too. 
It is the small old-fashioned dwelling with stone lion-heads 
above the windows. But make him turn round, and drive 
slowly, and I will soon point it out.” . 


318 


PIERRE. 


“ Can’t see lions in the dark” — growled the driver — “ lions ; 
ha ! ha ! jackasses more likely !” 

“ Look you,” said the officer, “ I shall see you tightly housed 
this night, my fine fellow, if you don’t cease your jabber. Sir,” 
he added, resuming with Pierre, “ I am sure there is some mis- 
take here. I perfectly well know now the house you mean. I 
passed it within the last half-hour ; all as quiet there as ever. 
No one lives there, I think; I never saw a light in it. Ai*e you 
not mistaken in something, then ?” 

Pierre paused in perplexity and foreboding. Was it possible 
that Glen had willfully and utterly neglected his letter ? Not 
possible. But it might not have come to his hand ; the mails 
sometimes delayed. Then again, it was not wholly out of the 
question, that the house was prepared for them after all, even 
though it showed no outward sign. But that was not proba- 
ble. At any rate, as the driver protested, that his four homes 
and lumbering vehicle could not turn short round in that 
street ; and that if he must go back, it could only be done by 
driving on, and going round the block, and so retracing his 
road ; and as after such a procedure, on his part, then in case 
of a confirmed disappointment respecting the house, the driver 
iVould seem warranted, at least in some of his unmannerliness ; 
and as Pierre loathed the villain altogether, therefore, in order to 
run no such risks, he came to a sudden determination on the 
spot. 

“I owe you very much, my good friend,” said he to the 
officer, “for your timely assistance. To be frank, what you 
have just told me has indeed perplexed me not a little concern- 
ing the place where I proposed to stop. Is there no hotel in 
this neighborhood, where I could leave these ladies while I seek 
my friend ?” 

Wonted to all manner of deceitfulness, and engaged in a 
calling which unavoidably makes one distrustful of mere ap- 
pearances, however specious, however honest ; the really good- 


PIERRE. 


319 


hearted officer, now eyed Pierre in the dubious light with a 
most unpleasant scrutiny ; and he abandoned the “ Sir,” and 
the tone of his voice sensibly changed, as he replied : — “ There 
is no hotel in this neighborhood ; it is too off the thorough- 
fares.” 

“ Come ! come !” — cried the driver, now growing bold again 
— “ though you’re an officer. I’m a citizen for all that. You 
havn't any further right to keep me out of my bed now. He 
don’t know where he wants to go to, cause he haint got no place 
at all to go to ; so I’ll just dump him here, and you dar’n’t stay 
me.” 

“Don’t be impertinent now,” said the officer, but not so 
sternly as before. 

“ I’ll have my rights though, I tell you that ! Leave go of 
my arm ; damn ye, get off the box ; I’ve the law now. I say 
mister, come tramp, here goes your luggage,” and so saying he 
dragged toward him a light trunk on the top of the stage. 

“ Keep a clean tongue in ye now” — said the officer — “ and 
don’t be in quite so great a hurry,” then addressing Pierre, who 
had now re-alighted from the coach — “ Well, this can’t con- 
tinue ; what do you intend to do ?” 

“ Not to ride further with that man, at any rate,” said Pien'e ; 
“ I will stop right here for the present.” 

“ He ! he !” laughed the driver ; “ he ! he ! ’mazing ’commo- 
dating now — we hitches now, we do — stops right afore the 
wateh-house — he ! he ! — that’s funny !” 

“ Off with the luggage then, driver,” said the policeman — 
“ here hand the small trunk, and now away and unlash there 
behind.” 

During all this scene, Delly had remained perfectly silent in 
her trembling and rustic alarm ; while Isabel, by occasional 
cries to Pierre, had vainly besought some explanation. But 
though their complete ignorance of city life had caused Pierre’s 
two companions to regard the scene thus far with too much 


320 


PIERRE. 


trepidation ; yet now, when in the obscurity of night, and in 
the heart of a strange town, Pierre handed them out of the 
coach into the naked street, and they saw their luggage piled 
so near the white light of a watch-house, the same ignorance, 
in some sort, reversed its effects on them j for they little fancied 
in what really untoward and wretched circumstances they first 
touched the flagging of the city. 

As the coach lumbered off, and went rolling into the wide 
murkiness beyond, Pierre spoke to the officer. 

“ It is a rather strange accident, I confess, my friend, but 
strange accidents will sometimes happen.” 

“ In the best of families,” rejoined the other, a little ironi- 
cally. 

Now, I must not quarrel with this man, thought Pierre to 
himself, stung at the officer’s tone. Then said : — “ Is there any 
one in your — office ?” 

“No one as yet — not late enough.” 

“ Will you have the kindness then to house these ladies 
there for the present, while I make haste to provide them 
with better lodgment ? Lead on, if you please.” 

The man seemed to hesitate a moment, but finally acqui- 
esced ; and soon they passed under the white light, and entered 
a large, plain, and most forbidding-looking room, with hacked 
wooden benches and bunks ranged along the sides, and a rail- 
ing before a desk in one corner. The permanent keeper of the 
place was quietly reading a paper by the long central double 
bat’s-wing gas-light ; and three officers off duty were nodding 
on a bench. 

“ Not very liberal accommodations” — said the officer, quietly ; 
“ nor always the best of company, but we try to be civil. Be 
seated, ladies,” politely drawing a small bench toward them. 

“ Hallo, my friends,” said Pierre, approaching the nodding 
three beyond, and tapping them on the shoulder — “ Hallo, 1 
say ! Will you do me a little favor ? Will you help brinp 


PIEERE« 


321 


some trunks in from the street ? I will satisfy you for your 
ti’ouble, and be much obliged into the bargain.” 

Instantly the three noddies, used to sudden awakenings, 
opened their eyes, and stared hard; and being further en- 
lightened by the bat’s-wings and first officer, promptly brought 
in the luggage as desired. 

Pierre hurriedly sat down by Isabel, and in a few words gave 
her to understand, that she was now in a perfectly secure place, 
however unwelcoming ; that the officers would take eveiy care 
of her, while he made all possible speed in running to the 
house, and indubitably ascertaining how matter’s stood there. 
He hoped to be back in less than ten minutes with good tidings. 
Explaining his intention to the fii’st officer, and begging him 
not to leave the girls till he should return, he forthwith sallied 
into the street. He quickly came to the house, and imme- 
diately identified it. But all was profoundly silent and datk. 
He rang the bell, but no answer ; and waiting long enough 
to be certain, that either the house was indeed deserted, or else 
the old clerk was unawakeable or absent ; and at all events, 
certain that no slightest preparation had been made for their 
arrival; Pierre, bitterly disappointed, returned to Isabel with 
this most unpleasant information. 

Nevertheless something must be done, and quickly. Turn- 
ing to one of the officers, he begged him to go and seek a hack, 
that the whole party might be taken to some respectable lodg- 
ing. But the man, as well as his comrades, declined the 
errand on the score, that there was no stand on their beat, and 
they could not, on any account, leave their beat. So Pierre 
himself must go. He by no means liked to leave Isabel and 
Belly again, on an expedition which might occupy some time. 
But there seemed no resource, and time now imperiously 
pressed. Communicating his intention therefore to Isabel, and 
again entreating the officer’s particular services as before, and 
promising not to leave him unrequited ; Pierre again sallied 


322 


PI ERBE. 


out. He looked up and down the street, and listened ; but no 
sound of any approaching vehicle was audible. He ran on, 
and turning the first corner, bent his rapid steps toward the 
greatest and most central avenue of the city, assured that 
there, if anywhere, he would find what he wanted. It was 
some distance off ; and he was not without hope that an empty 
hack would meet him ere he arrived there. But the few stray 
ones he encountered had all muffled fares. He continued on, 
and at last gained the great avenue. Not habitually used to 
such scenes, Pierre for a moment was surprised, that the in- 
stant he turned out of the narrow, and dark, and death-like 
bye-street, he should find himself suddenly precipitated into 
the not-yet-repressed noise and contention, and all the garish 
night-life of a vast thoroughfare, crowded and wedged by 
day, and even now, at this late hour, brilliant with occasional 
illuminations, and echoing to very many swift wheels and 
footfalls. 


II. 

“ I SAY, my pretty one 1 Dear ! Dear ! young man ! Oh, 
love, you are in a vast hurry, aint you ? Can’t you stop a bit, 
now, my dear : do — there’s a sweet fellow.” 

Pierre turned ; and in the flashing, sinister, evil cross-lights 
of a druggist’s window, his eye caught the person of a wonder- 
fully beautifully-featured girl ; scarlet-cheeked, glaringly-array- 
ed, and of a figure all natural grace but unnatural vivacity. 
Her whole form, however, was horribly lit by the green and 
yellow rays from the druggist’s. 

“ My God !” shuddered Pierre, hurrying forward, “ the 
town’s first welcome to youth !” 

He was just crossing over to where a line of hacks were 


PIERRE. 


823 


drawn up against the opposite curb, when his eye was arrested 
by a short, gilded name, rather reservedly and aristocratically 
denominating a large and very handsome house, the second 
story of which was profusely lighted. He looked up, and 
was very certain that in this house were the apartments of 
Glen. Yielding to a sudden impulse, he mounted the single 
step toward the door, and rang the bell, which was quickly re- 
sponded to by a very civil black. 

As the door opened, he heard the distant interior sound of 
dancing-music and merriment. 

“ Is Mr. Stanly in ?” 

“ Mr. Stanly ? Yes, but he’s engaged.” 

“ How ?” 

“ He is somewhere in the drawing roonis. My mistress is 
giving a party to the lodgers.” 

“ Ay ? Tell Mr. Stanly I wish to see him for one moment 
if you please ; only one moment.” 

“ I dare not call him, sir. He said that possibly some one 
might call for him to-night — they are calling every night for 
Mr. Stanly — but I must admit no one, on the plea of the 
party.” 

A dark and bitter suspicion now darted through the mind 
of Pierre ; and ungovernably yielding to it, and resolved to 
prove or falsify it without delay, he -said to the black : 

“ My business is pressing. I must see Mr. Stanly.” 

“ I am sorry, sir, but orders are orders : I am his particular 
servant here — the one that sees his silver every holyday. I 
can’t disobey him. May I shut the door, sir ? for as it is, I can 
not admit you.” 

“ The drawing-rooms are on the second floor, are they not ?” 
said Pierre quietly. 

“ Yes,” said the black pausing in surprise, and holding the 
door. 

“ Yonder are the stairs, I think 1” 


824 


PIERRE. 


“ That way, sir ; but this is yours and the now suspicious 
black was just on the point of closing the portal violently upon 
him, when Pierre thrust him suddenly aside, and springing up 
the long stairs, found himself facing an open door, from ^vhence 
proceeded a burst of combined brilliancy and melody, doubly 
confusing to one just emerged from the street. But bewildered 
and all demented as he momentarily felt, he instantly stalked 
in, and confounded the amazed company with his unremoved 
slouched hat, pale cheek, and whole dusty, travel-stained, and 
ferocious aspect. 

“ Mr. Stanly ! where is Mr. Stanly ?” he cried, advancing 
straight through a startled quadrille, while all the music sud- 
denly hushed, and every eye was fixed in vague affright upon 
him. 

“ Mr. Stanly ! Mr. Stanly !” cried several bladish voices, 
toward the further end of the further drawing-room, into which 
the first one widely opened, “ Here is a most peculiar fellow 
after you ; who the devil is he ?” 

“ I think I see him,” replied a singularly cool, deliberate, and 
rather drawling voice, yet a very silvery one, and at bottom 
perhaps a very resolute one ; “ I think I see him ; stand aside, 
my good fellow, will you ; ladies, remove, remove from between 
me and yonder hat.” 

The polite compliance of the company thus addressed, now 
revealed to the advancing Pierre, the tall, robust figure of a re- 
markably splendid-looking, and brown-bearded young man, 
dressed with suVprising plainness, almost demureness, for such 
an occasion ; but this plainness of his dress was not so obvious 
at first, the material was so fine, and admirably fitted. He 
was carelessly lounging in a half side-long attitude upon a 
large sofa, and appeared as if but just interrupted in some very 
agreeable chat with a diminutive but vivacious brunette, occu- 
pying other end. The dandy and the man ; strength and 
effeminacy ; courage and indolence, were so strangely blended 


P I E RRE. 


325 


in this superb-eyed youth, that at first sight, it seemed impossi- 
ble to decide whether there was any genuine mettle in him, or 
not. 

Some years had gone by since the cousins had met ; years 
peculiarly productive of the greatest conceivable changes in the 
general pereonal aspect of human beings. Nevertheless, the 
eye seldom altem. The instant their eyes met, they mutually 
recognized each other. But both did not betray the recognition. 

“ Glen !” cried Pierre, and paused a few steps from him. 

But the superb-eyed only settled himself lower down in his 
lounging attitude, and slowly withdrawing a small, unpretend- 
ing, and unribboned glass from his vest pocket, steadily, yet 
not entirely insultingly, notwithstanding the circumstances, scru- 
tinized Pierre. Then, dropping his glass, turned slowly round 
upon the gentlemen near him, saying in the same peculiar, 
mixed, and musical voice as before : 

“ I do not know him ; it is an entire mistake ; why don’t 

the servants take him out, and the music go on ? As I was 

saying. Miss Clara, the statues you saw in the Louvre are not 
to be mentioned with those in Florence and Rome. Why, 
there now is that vaunted chef d^ceuvre, the Fighting Gladiator 
of the Louvre ” 

“ Fighting Gladiator it is !” yelled Pierre, leaping toward 
him like Spartacus. But the savage impulse in him was re- 
strained by the alarmed female shrieks and wild gestures 
around him. As he paused, several gentlemen made motions 
to pinion him ; but shaking them off fiercely, he stood erect, 
and isolated for an instant, and fastening his glance upon his 
still reclining, and apparently unmoved cousin, thus spoke : — 

“ Glendinning Stanly, thou disown’st Pierre not so abhor- 
rently as Pierre does thee. By Heaven, had I a knife, Glen, 
I could prick thee on the spot ; let out all thy Glendinning 
blood, and then sew up the vile remainder. Hound, and base 
blot upon the general humanity !” 


826 


PIERRE. 


“ This is very extraordinary : — remarkable case of combined 
imposture and insanity ; but where are the servants ? why 
don’t that black advance ? Lead him out, my good Doc, lead 
him out. Carefully, carefully ! stay” — putting his hand in his 
pocket — “ there, take that, and have the poor fellow driven off 
somewhere.” 

Bolting his rage in him, as impossible to be sated by any 
conduct, in such a place, Pierre now turned, sprang down the 
staii-s, and fled the house. 


ni. 

“ Hack, sir ? Hack, sir ? Hack, sir ?” 

“ Cab, sir ? Cab, sir ? Cab, sir ?” 

“ This way, sir ! This way, sir ! This way, sir !” 

“ He ’s a rogue ! Not him ! he ’s a rogue !” 

Pierre was surrounded by a crowd of contending hackmen, 
all holding long whips in their hands ; while others eagerly 
beckoned to him from their boxes, where they sat elevated be- 
tween their two coach-lamps like shabby, discarded saints. The 
whip-stalks thickened around him, and several reports of the 
cracking lashes sharply sounded in his ears. Just bursting 
from a scene so goading as his interview with the scornful Glen 
in the dazzling drawing-room, to Pierre, this sudden tumultuous 
surrounding of him by whip-stalks and lashes, seemed like the 
onset of the chastising fiends upon Orestes. But, breaking- 
away from them, he seized the first plated door-handle near 
him, and, leaping into the hack, shouted for whoever was the 
keeper of it, to mount his box forthwith and drive off in a given 
direction. 

The vehicle had proceeded some way down the great avenue 


PIEERE. 


827 


when it paused, and the driver demanded whither now ; what 
place ? 

“ The Watch-house of the Ward,” cried Pierre. 

“Hi! hi! Goin’ to deliver himself up, hey?” grinned the 
fellow to himself — “ Well, that’s a sort of honest, any way : — 
g’lang, you dogs ! — whist ! whee ! wha ! — g’lang !” 

The sights and sounds which met the eye of Pierre on re-en- 
tering the watch-house, filled him with inexpressible horror and 
fury. The before decent, drowsy place, now fairly reeked with 
all things unseemly. Hardly possible was it to tell what con- 
ceivable cause or occasion had, in the comparatively short ab- 
sence of Pierre, collected such a base congregation. In inde- 
scribable disorder, frantic, diseased-looking men and women of 
all colors, and in all imaginable flaunting, immodest, gi’otesque, 
and shattered dresses, were leaping, yelling, and cursing around 
him. The torn Madras handkerchiefs of negresses, and the 
red gowns of yellow girls, hanging in tatters from their naked 
bosoms, mixed with the rent dresses of deep-rouged white wo- 
men, and the split coats, checkered vests, and protruding shirts 
of pale, or whiskered, or haggard, or mustached fellows of all 
nations, some of whom seemed scared from their beds, and 
others seemingly arrested in the midst of some crazy and wan- 
ton dance. On all sides, were heard drunken male and female 
voices, in English, French, Spanish, and Portuguese, interlarded 
now and then, with the foulest of all human lingoes, that dia- 
lect of sin and death, known as the Cant language, or the 
Flash. 

Running among this combined babel of persons and voices, 
several of the police were vainly striving to still the tumult ; 
while others were busy handcuflSng the more desperate ; and 
here and there the distracted wretches, both men and women, 
gave downright battle to the officers ; and still others already 
handcufled struck out at them with their joined ironed arms. 
Meanwhile, words and phrases unrepeatable in God’s sunlight, 


328 


PIE REE. 


and whose very existence was utterly unknown, and undreamed 
of by tens of thousands of the decent people of the city ; syl- 
lables obscene and accursed were shouted forth in tones plainly 
evincing that they were the common household breath of their 
utterers. The thieves’-quarters, and all the brothels, Lock-and- 
Sin hospitals for incurables, and infirmaries and infernoes of 
hell seemed to have made one combined sortie, and poured out 
upon earth through the vile vomitory of some unmentionable 
cellar. 

Though the hitherto imperfect and casual city experiences 
of Pierre, illy fitted him entirely to comprehend the specific 
purport of this terrific spectacle; still he knew enough by 
hearsay of the more infamous life of the town, to imagine 
from whence, and who, were the objects before him. But all 
his consciousness at the time was absorbed by the one horrified 
thought of Isabel and Delly, forced to witness a sight hardly 
endurable for Pierre himself; or, possibly, sucked into the 
tumult, and in close personal contact with its loathsomeness. 
Bushing into the crowd, regardless of the random blows and 
curses he encountered, he wildly sought for Isabel, and soon 
descried her struggling from the delirious reaching arms of a 
half-clad reeling whiskerando. With an immense blow of his 
mailed fist, he sent the wretch humming, and seizing Isabel, 
cried out to two officers near, to clear a path for him to^the 
door. They did so. And in a few minutes the panting Isabel 
was safe in the open air. He would have stayed by her, but 
she conjured him to return for Delly, exposed to worse insults 
than herself. An additional posse of officers now approaching, 
Pierre committing her to the care of one of them, and sum- 
moning two others to join himself, now re-entered the room. 
In another quarter of it, he saw Delly seized on each hand by 
two bleared and half-bloody women, who with fiendish grim- 
aces were ironically twitting her upon her close-necked dress, 
and had already stript her handkerchief from her. She uttered 


PIERRE. 


829 


a cry of mixed anguish and joy at the sight of him ; and 
Pierre soon succeeded in returning with her to Isabel. 

During the absence of Pierre in quest of the hack, and 
while Isabel and Delly were quietly awaiting his return, the 
door had suddenly burst open, and a detachment of the police 
drove in, and caged, the entire miscellaneous night-occupants 
of a notorious stew, which they had stormed and carried during 
the height of some outrageous orgie. The fii*st sight of the 
interior of the watch-house, and their being so quickly huddled 
together within its four blank walls, had suddenly lashed the 
mob into frenzy ; so that for the time, oblivious of all other 
considerations, the entire force of the police was directed to 
the quelling of the in-door riot ; and consequently, abandoned 
to their own protection, Isabel and Delly had been temporarily 
left to its mercy. 

It was no time for Pierre to manifest his indignation at the 
officer — even if he could now find him — who had thus falsified 
his individual pledge concerning the precious charge committed 
to him. Nor was it any time to distress himself about his lug- 
gage, still somewhere within. Quitting all, he thrust the be- 
wildered and half-lifeless girls into the waiting hack, which, by 
his orders, drove back in the direction of the stand, where 
Pierre had first taken it up. 

When the coach had rolled them well away from the tumult, 
Pierre stopped it, and said to the man, that he desired to be 
taken to the nearest respectable hotel or boai*ding-house of any 
kind, that he knew of. The fellow — maliciously diverted by 
what had happened thus far — made some ambiguous and 
rudely merry rejoinder. But warned by his previous rash 
quarrel with the stage-driver, Pierre passed this unnoticed, and 
in a controlled, calm, decided manner repeated his directions. 

The issue was, that after a rather roundabout drive they 
drew up in a very respectable side-street, before a large re- 
spectable-looking house, illuminated by two tall white lights 


330 


PIERRE. 


flanking its portico. Pierre was glad to notice some little re- 
maining stir within, spite of the comparative lateness of the 
hour. A bare-headed, tidily-dressed, and very intelligent-look- 
ing man, with a broom clothes-brush in his hand, appearing, 
scrutinized him rather sharply at first ; but as Pierre advanced 
further into the light, and his countenance became visible, the 
man, assuming a respectful but still slightly perplexed air, in- 
vited the whole party into a closely adjoining parlor, whose dis- 
ordered chairs and general dustiness, evinced that after a day’s 
activity it now awaited the morning offices of the housemaids. 

“ Baggage, sir ?” 

“ I have left my baggage at another place,” said Pierre, “ I 
shall send for it to-morrow.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed the very intelligent-looking man, rather 
dubiously, “ shall I discharge the hack, then ?” 

“ Stay,” said Pierre, bethinking him, that it would be well 
not to let the man know from whence they had last come, “ I 
will discharge it myself, thank you.” 

So returning to the sidewalk, without debate, he paid the 
hackman an exorbitant fare, who, anxious to secure such illegal 
gains beyond all hope of recovery, quickly mounted his box and 
drove off at a gallop. 

“Will you step into the office, sir, now?” said the man, 
slightly flourishing with his brush — “this way, sir, if you 
please.” 

Pierre followed him, into an almost deserted, dimly lit room 
with a stand in it. Going behind the stand, the man turned 
round to him a large ledger-like book, thickly inscribed with 
names, like any directory, and offered him a pen ready dipped 
in ink. 

Underetanding the general hint, though secretly irritated at 
something in the manner of the man, Pierre drew the book to 
him, and wrote in a firm hand, at the bottom of the last-named 
column, — 


PIERRE. 


881 


“ Mr. and Mrs. Pierre Glendinning, and Miss Ulver.” 

The man glanced at the writing inquiringly, and then said — 
“ The other column, sir — where from.” 

“ True,” said Pierre, and wrote “ Saddle Meadows.” 

The very intelligent-looking man re-examined the page, and 
then slowly stroking his shaven chin, with a fork, made of his 
thumb for one tine, and his united four fingers for the other, 
said softly and whisperingly — “Anywheres in this country, 
sir ?” 

“ Yes, in the country,” said Pierre, evasively, and bridling 
his ire. “ But now show me to two chambers, will you ; the 
one for myself and wife, I desire to have opening into another, 
a third one, never mind how small ; but I must have a dressing- 
room.” 

“ Dressing-room,” repeated the man, in an ironically deliber- 
ative voice — “Dressing-room; — Hem! — ^You will have your 
luggage taken into the dressing-room, then, I suppose. — Oh, I 
forgot — your luggage aint come yet — ah, yes, yes, yes — lug- 
gage is coming to-morrow — Oh, yes, yes, — certainly — to-mor- 
row — of course. By the way, sir ; I dislike to seem at all un- 
civil, and I am sure you will not deem me so ; but — 

“ Well,” said Pierre, mustering all his self-command for the 
coming impertinence. 

“ When stranger gentlemen come to this house without lug- 
gage, we think ourselves bound to ask them to pay their bills 
in advance, sir ; that is all, sir.” 

“ I shall stay here to-night and the whole of to-morrow, at 
any rate,” rejoined Pierre, thankful that this was all ; “ how 
much will it be ?” and he drew out his purse. 

The man’s eyes fastened with eagerness on the purse ; he 
looked from it to the face of him who held it; then seemed 
half hesitating an instant ; then brightening up, said, with sud- 
den suavity — “ Never mind, sir, never mind, sir ; though rogues 
sometimes be gentlemanly; gentlemen that are gentlemen 


332 


PIJJBBE. 


never go abroad without their diplomas. Their diplomas are 
their friends ; and their only friends are their dollars.; you have 
a purse-full of friends. — We have chambers, sir, that will ex- 
actly suit you, I think. Bring your ladies and I will show you 
up to them immediately.” So saying, dropping his brush, the 
very intelligent-looking man lighted one lamp, and taking 
two unlighted ones in his other hand, led the way down the 
dusky lead-sheeted hall, Pierre following him with Isabel and 
Belly. 


BOOK XVIL 


YOUNG AMERICA IN LITERATURE. 


I. 

Among the various conflicting modes of writing histoiy, there 
would seem to be two grand practical distinctions, under which 
all the rest must subordinately range. By the one mode, all 
contemporaneous circumstances, facts, and events must be set 
down contemporaneously ; by the other, they are only to be set 
down as the general stream of the narrative shall dictate ; for 
matters which are kindred in time, may be very irrelative in 
themselves. I elect neither of these ; I am careless of either ; 
both are well enough in their way ; I wiite precisely as I please. 

In the earlier chapters of this volume, it has somewhere been 
passingly intimated, that Pierre was not only a reader of the 
poets and other fine writere, but likewise — and what is a very 
different thing from the other — a thorough allegorical under- 
stander of them, a profound emotional sympathizer with them ; 
in other words, Pierre himself possessed the poetic nature ; in 
himself absolutely, though but latently and floatingly, possessed 
every whit of the imaginative wealth which he so admired, 
when by vast pains-takings, and all manner of unrecompensed 
agonies, systematized on the printed page. Not that as yet his 
young and immature soul had been accosted by the Wonder- 
ful Mutes, and through the vast halls of Silent Truth, had been 
ushered into the full, secret, eternally inviolable Sanhedrim, 


334 


PIERRE. 


where the Poetic Magi discuss, in glorious gihbeiish, the Alpha 
and Omega of the Universe. But among the beautiful ima- 
ginings of the second and third degree of poets, he freely and 
comprehendingly ranged. 

But it still remains to be said, that Pierre himself had writ- 
ten many a fugitive thing, which had brought him, not only 
vast credit and compliments from his more immediate acquaint- 
ances, but the less partial applauses of the always intelligent, 
and extremely discriminating public. In short, Pierre had fre- 
quently done that, which many other boys have done — pub- 
lished, Not in the imposing form of a book, but in the more 
modest and becoming way of occasional contributions to maga- 
zines and other polite periodicals. His magnificent and victo- 
rious debut had been made in that delightful love-sonnet, en- 
titled “ The Tropical Summer.” Not only the public had ap- 
plauded his gemmed little sketches of thought and fancy, 
whether in poetry or prose ; but the high and mighty Camp- 
bell clan of editors of all sorts had bestowed upon him those 
generous commendations, which, with one instantaneous glance, 
they had immediately perceived was his due. They spoke in 
high terms of his surprising command of language ; they begged 
to express their wonder at his euphonious construction of sen- 
tences ; they regarded with reverence the pervading symmetry 
of his general style. But transcending even this profound in- 
sight into the deep merits of Pierre, they looked infinitely be- 
yond, and confessed their complete inability to restrain their 
unqualified admiration for the highly judicious smoothness and 
genteelness of the sentiments and fancies expressed. “This 
writer,” said one, — in an ungovernable burst of admiring fury 
— “ is characterized throughout by Perfect Taste.” Another, 
after endomingly quoting that sapient, suppressed maxim of 
Dr. Goldsmith’s, which asserts that whatever is new is false, 
went on to apply it to the excellent productions before him ; 
concluding with this : “ He has translated the unruffled gentle- 


PIERRE 


835 


man from the drawing-room into the general levee of letters ; 
he never permits himself to astonish ; is never betrayed into 
any thing coarse or new ; as assured that whatever astonishes 
is vulgar, and whatever is new must he crude. Yes, it is the 
glory of this admirable young author, that vulgarity and vigor 
— two inseparable adjuncts — are equally removed from him. 

A third, perorated a long and beautifully written review, by 
the bold and startling announcement — “ This writer is unques- 
tionably a highly respectable youth.” 

Nor had the editors of various moral and religious periodicals 
failed to render the tribute of their severer appreciation, and 
more enviable, because more chary applause. A renowned 
clerical and philological conductor of a weekly publication of 
this kind, whose surprising proficiency in the Greek, Hebrew, 
and Chaldaic, to which he had devoted by far the gi-eater part 
of his life, peculiarly fitted him to pronounce unerring judg- 
ment upon works of taste in the English, had unhesitatingly 
delivered himself thus : — “ He is blameless in morals, and 
harmless throughout.” Another, had unhesitatingly recom- 
mended his effusions to the family -circle. A third, had no re- 
serve in saying, that the predominant end and aim of this 
author was evangelical piety. 

A mind less naturally strong than Pierre’s might well have 
been hurried into vast self-complacency, by such eulogy as 
this, especially as there could be no possible doubt, that the 
primitive verdict pronounced by the editors was irreversible, 
except in the highly improbable event of the near approach of 
the Millennium, which might establish a different dynasty of 
taste, and possibly eject the editors. It is true, that in view of 
the general practical vagueness of these panegyrics, and the 
circumstance that, in essence, they were all somehow of the 
prudently indecisive sort; and, considering that they were 
panegyrics, and. nothing but panegyrics, without any thing 
analytical about them ; an elderly friend of a literary turn, 


33a 


PIERRE. 


had made bold to say to our hero — “ Pierre, this is very high 
praise, I grant, and you are a surprisingly young author to re- 
ceive it ; but I do not see any criticisms as yet.” 

“ Criticisms ?” cried Pierre, in amazement ; “ why, sir, they 
are all criticisms ! I am the idol of the critics I” 

“ Ah !” sighed the elderly friend, as if suddenly reminded 
that that was true after all — “Ah !” and went on with his 
inoffensive, non-committal cigar. 

Nevertheless, thanks to the editors, such at last became the 
popular literary enthusiasm in behalf of Pierre, that two young 
men, recently abandoning the ignoble pursuit of tailoring for 
the more honorable trade of the publisher (probably with an 
economical view of working up in books, the linen and cotton 
shreds of the cutter’s counter, after having been subjected to 
the action of the paper-mill), had on the daintiest scolloped- 
edged paper, and in the neatest possible, and fine-needle-work 
hand, addressed him a letter, couched in the following terms •, 
the general style of which letter will sufficiently evince that, 
though — thanks to the manufacturer — their linen and cotton 
shreds may have been very completely transmuted into paper, 
yet the cutters themselves were not yet entirely out of the 
metamorphosing mill. 

“ Hon. Pierre Glendinning, 

“ Revered Sir, 

“ The fine cut, the judicious fit of your productions 
fill us with amazement. The fabric is excellent — the finest 
broadcloth of genius. We have just started in business. Your 
pantaloons — ^productions, we mean — have never yet been col- 
lected. They should be published in the Library form. The 
tailors — we mean the librarians, demand it. Your fame is 
now in its finest nap. Now — ^before the gloss is off — ^now is 
the time for the libraiy form. We have recently received an 
invoice of Chamois Russia leather. The library form should 


PIERRE. 


837 


be a durable form. We respectfully offer to dress your amaz- 
ing productions in tbe library form. If you please, we will 

transmit you a sample of tbe cloth ^we mean a sample-page, 

with a pattern of the leather. We are ready to give you one 
tenth of the profits (less discount) for the privilege of arraying 
your wonderful productions in the library form : — you cashing 

the seamstresses’ printer’s and binder’s bills on the day of 

publication. An answer at your earliest convenience will 
greatly oblige, — 

“ Sir, your most obsequious servants, 

“Wonder & Wen.” 

“ P. S. — We respectfully submit, the enclosed block sheet, 

as some earnest of* our intentions to do every thing in your be- 
half possible to any firm in the trade. ^ 

“ N. B. — If the list does not comprise all your illustrious ward- 
robe works, we mean , we shall exceedingly regret 

it. We have hunted through all the drawers magazines. 

“ Sample" of a coat title for the works of Glendinning: 

THE 

COMPLETE WORKS 

* OF 

GLENDINNING, 

AUTHOR OF 

That world-famed production, “ The Tropical Summer: a Sonnet:' 

“ The Weather: a Thought." “ Life: an Impromptu." “ The 
late Reverend Mark Graceman: an Obituary." “ Honor: 
a Stanza." “ Beauiy : an Acrostic." “ Edgar : 
an Anagram." ‘^The Pippin: a Paragraph." 
df'C. djrc. <^c. 

d^c. tf'C. <f*c. 
tf’C. <^C. ; 

P 


888 


PI EKKE. 


From a designer, Pierre had received the following : 

“ Sir : I approach you with unfeigned trepidation. For 
though you are young in age, you are old in fame and ability. 
I can not express to you my ardent admiration of your works ; 
nor can I but deeply regret that the productions of such graphic 
desci-iptive power, should be unaccompanied by the humbler illus- 
trative labors of the designer. My services in this line are en- 
tirely at your command. I need not say how proud I should 
be, if this hint, on my part, however presuming, should induce 
you to reply in terms upon which I could found the hope of 
honoring myself and my profession by a few designs for the 
works of the illustrious Glendinning. But the cursory mention 
of your name here fills me with such swelling emotions, that I 
can say nothing more. I would only add, however, that not 
being at all connected with the Trade, my business situation 
unpleasantly forces me to make cash down on delivery of each 
design, the basis of all my professional arrangements. Your 
noble soul, however, would disdain to suppose, that this sor- 
did necessity, in my merely business concerns, could ever im- 
pair — 

“ That profound private veneration and admiration 
“ With which I unmercenarily am, 

“ Great and good Glendinning, 

“ Yours most humbly, 

“Peter Pence.” 


II. 

These were stirring letters. The Library Form ! an Illus- 
trated Edition ! His whole heart swelled. 

But unfortunately it occurred to Pierre, that as all his writ- 


P I E li K E . 


389 


ings were not only fugitive, but if put together could not possi- 
bly fill more than a very small duodecimo ; therefore the Li- 
brary Edition seemed a little premature, perhaps ; possibly, in 
a slight degi’ee, preposterous. Then, as they were chiefly made 
up of little sonnets, brief meditative poems, and moral essays, 
the matter for the designer ran some small risk of being but 
meager. In his inexperience, he did not know that such was 
the gi'eat height of invention to which the designer’s art had 
been carried, that certain gentlemen of that profession had gone 
to an eminent publishing-house with overtures for an illustrated 
edition of “ Coke upon Lyttleton.” Even the City Directory 
was beautifully illustrated with exquisite engravings of bricks, 
tongs, and flat-hons. 

Concerning the draught for the title-page, it must be con- 
fessed, that on seeing the imposing enumeration of his titles — 
long and magnificent as those preceding the proclamations of 
some German Prince (“ Hereditary Lord of the hack-yard of 
Crantz Jacobi ; Undoubted Proprietor by Seizure of the bed- 
stead of the late Widow Van Lorn ; Heir Apparent to the 
Bankrupt Bakery of Fletz and Flitz ; Residuary Legatee of 
the Cmfiscated Pin-Money of the Late Dowager Bunker ; 
dec, dec. ckcJ) Pierre could not entirely repress a momentary 
feeling of elation. Yet did he also bow low under the weight 
of his own ponderosity, as the author of such a vast load of lit- 
erature. It occasioned him some slight misgivings, however, 
when he considered, that already in his eighteenth year, his 
title-page should so immensely surpass in voluminous statisti- 
cals the simple page, which in his father’s edition prefixed the 
vast speculations of Plato. Still, he comforted himself with the 
thought, that as he could not presume to interfere with the 
bill-stickers of the Gazelle Magazine, who every month covered 
the walls of the city with gigantic announcements of his name 
among the other contributors ; so neither could he now-— in the 
highly improbable event of closing with the offer of Messrs. 


340 


PIERRE. 


Wonder and Wen — presume to interfere with the hill-sticking 
department of their business concern ; for it was plain that they 
esteemed one’s title-page but another unwindowed wall, infi- 
nitely more available than most walls, since here was at least 
one spot in the city where no rival bill-stickers dared to en- 
croach. ISTevertheless, resolved as he was to let all such bill- 
sticking matters take care of themselves, he was sensible of 
some coy inclination toward that modest method of certain kid- 
gloved and dainty authoi-s, who scorning the vulgarity of a 
sounding parade, contented themselves with simply subscribing 
their name to the title-page ; as confident^ that that was suffi- 
cient guarantee to the notice of all true gentlemen of taste. 
It was for petty German princes to sound their prolonged titu- 
lar flourishes. The Czar of Russia contented himself with put- 
ting the simple word “ Nicholas” to his loftiest decrees. 

This train of thought terminated at last in various considera- 
tions upon the subject of anonymousness in authorship. He 
regretted that he had not started his literary career under that 
mask. At present, it might be too late ; already the whole 
universe knew him, and it was in vain at this late day to at- 
tempt to hood himself. But when he considered the essential 
dignity and propriety at all points, of the inviolably anonymous 
method, he could not but feel the sincerest sympathy for those un- 
fortunate fellows, who, not only naturally averse to any sort of 
publicity, but progressively ashamed of their own successive pro- 
ductions — written chiefly for the merest cash — were yet cruelly 
coerced into sounding title-pages by sundry baker’s and butch- 
er’s bills, and other financial considerations ; inasmuch as the 
placard of the title-page indubitably must assist the publisher 
in his sales. 

But perhaps the ruling, though not altogether conscious mo- 
tive of Pierre in finally declining — as he did — the services of 
Messrs. Wonder and Wen, those eager applicants for the priv 
ilege of extending and solidifying his fame, arose from the idea 


P I E RRE. 


841 


that being at this time not very far advanced in years, the 
probability was, that his future productions might at least equal, 
if not surpass, in some small degree, those already given to the 
world. He resolved to wait for his literary canonization until 
he should at least have outgi’own the sophomorean insinuation 
of the Law ; which, with a singular affectation of benignity, pro- 
nounced him an “ infant.” His modesty obscured from him 
the circumstance, that the greatest lettered celebrities of the time, 
had, by the divine power of genius, become full graduates in the 
University of Fame, while yet as legal minors forced to go to 
their mammas for pennies wherewith to keep them in peanuts. 

Hot seldom Pierre’s social placidity was ruffled by polite en- 
treaties from the young ladies that he would be pleased to gi*ace 
their Albums with some nice little song. We say that here his 
social placidity was ruffled ; for the true charm of agreeable 
parlor society is, that there you lose your own sharp individual- 
ity and become delightfully merged in that soft social Panthe- 
ism, as it were, that rosy melting of all into one, ever prevailing 
in those drawing-rooms, which pacifically and deliciously belie 
their own name ; inasmuch as there no one draws the sword of 
his own individuality, but all such ugly weapons are left — as of 
old — with your hat and cane in the hall. It was very awk- 
ward to decline the albums ; but somehow it was still woi-se, 
and peculiarly distasteful for Pierre to comply. With equal 
justice apparently, you might either have called this his weak- 
ness or his idiosyncrasy. He summoned all his suavity, and 
refused. And the refusal of Pierre— according to Miss Angel- 
ica Amabilia of Ambleside — was sweeter than the compliance 
of others. But then — prior to the proffer of her album — ^in a 
copse at Ambleside, Pieri*e in a gallant whim had in the lady’s 
own presence voluntarily carved Miss Angelicas initials upon 
the bark of a beautiful maple. But all young ladies are not 
Miss Angelicas. Blandly denied in the parlor, they courted 
repulse in the study. In lovely envelopes they dispatched their 


342 


PIEREE. 


albums to Pierre, not omitting to drop a little attar-of-rose in 
the palm of the domestic who carried them. AYhile now Pierre 
— pushed to the wall in his gallantry — shilly-shallied as to 
what he must do, the awaiting albums multiphed upon him ; 
and by-and-by monopolized an entire shelf in his chamber ; so 
that while their combined ornate bindings fairly dazzled his 
eyes, their excessive redolence all but made him to faint, though 
indeed, in moderation, he was very partial to perfumes. So 
that of really chilly afternoons, he was still obliged to drop the 
upper sashes a few inches. 

The simplest of all things it is to write in a lady’s album. But 
Cui Bono ? Is there such a dearth of printed reading, that the 
monkish times must be revived, and ladies books be in manu- 
script ? What could Pierre write of his own on Love or any 
thing else, that would surpass what divine Hafiz wrote so many 
long centuries ago ? Was there not Anacreon too, and Catul- 
lus, and Ovid — all translated, and readily accessible? And 
then — bless all their souls ! — had the dear creatures forgotten 
Tom Moore? But the handwriting, Pierre, — ^they want the 
sight of your hand. Well, thought Pierre, actual feeling is 
better than transmitted sight, any day. I will give them the 
actual feeling of my hand, as much as they want. And lips 
are still better than hands. Let them send their sweet faces to 
me, and I will kiss lipographs upon them forever and a day. 
This was a felicitous idea. He called Dates, and had the al- 
bums carried down by the basket-full into the dining-room. 
He opened and spread them all out upon the extension-table 
there ; then, modeling himself by the Pope, when His Holiness 
collectively blesses long crates of rosaries — he waved one devout 
kiss to the albums ; and summoning three servants sent the 
albums all home, with his best compliments, accompanied with - 
a confectioner’s hiss for each album, rolled up in the most ethe- 
real tissue. 

From various quartei-s of the land, both town and country. 


P I E RE E. 


84:3 


and especially during the preliminary season of autumn, Pierre 
received various pressing invitations to lecture before Lyceums, 
Young Men’s Associations, and other Literary and Scientific 
Societies. The letters conveying these invitations possessed 
quite an imposing and most flattering aspect to the unsophisti- 
cated Pierre. One was as follows : — 


“ Urquhartian Club for the Immediate Extension of 
the Limits of all Knowledge^ both Human and 
Divine. 


'• Zadockprattsville, 

Author of the ‘ Tropical Summer,^ <f-c. “ June llth, 18 — . 

“ Honored and Dear Sir : — 

“ Ofificial duty and private inclination in this pres- 
ent case most delightfully blend. What was the ardent desire 
of my heart, has now by the action of the Committee on Lec- 
tures become professionally obligatory upon me. As Chair- 
man of our Committee on Lectures^ I hereby beg the privilege 
of entreating that you will honor this Society by lecturing 
before it on any subject you may choose, and at any day most 
convenient to yourself. The subject of Human Destiny we 
would respectfully suggest, without however at all wishing to 
impede you in your own unbiased selection. 

“ If you honor us by complying with this invitation, be as- 
sured, sir, that the Committee on Lectures will take the best 
care of you throughout your stay, and endeavor to make 
Zadockprattsville agreeable to you. A carriage will be in at- 
tendance at the Stage-house to convey yourself and luggage to 
the Inn, under full escort of the Committee on Lectures^ with 
the Chairman at their head. 

“ Permit me to join my private homage 

To my high official consideration for you, 

And to subscribe myself 

Very humbly your servant, 

“ Donald Dundonald.” 


S44 


PIERRE. 


III. 

But it was more especially the Lecture invitations coming 
from venerable, gray-headed metropolitan Societies, and indited 
by venerable gray-headed Secretaries, which far from elating 
filled the youthful Pierre with the sincerest sense of humility. 
Lecture ? lecture ? such a stripling as I lecture to fifty benches, 
with ten gray heads on each ? five hundred gray heads in all ! 
Shall my one, poor, inexperienced brain presume to lay down 
the law in a lecture to five hundred life-ripened understand- 
ings ? It seemed too absurd for thought. Yet the five hun- 
dred, through their spokesman, had voluntarily extended this 
identical invitation to him. Then how could it be otherwise, 
than that an incipient Timonism should shde into Pierre, when 
he considered all the disgraceful inferences to be derived from 
such a fact. He called to mind, how that once upon a time, 
during a visit of his to the city, the police were called out to 
quell a portentous riot, occasioned by the vast press and con- 
tention for seats at the first lecture of an illustrious lad of nine- 
teen, the author of “ A Week at Coney Island.” 

It is needless to say that Pierre most conscientiously and re- 
spectfully declined all polite overtures of this sort. 

Similar disenchantments of his cooler judgment did likewise 
deprive of their full lusciousness several other equally marked 
demonstrations of his literary celebrity. Applications for auto- 
graphs showered in upon him ; but in sometimes humorously 
gratifying the more urgent requests of these singular people 
Pierre could not but feel a pang of regret, that owing to the 
very youthful and quite unformed character of his handwriting, 
his signature did not possess that inflexible uniformity, which 
— for mere prudential reasons, if nothing more — should always 
mark the hand of illustrious men. His heart thrilled with 
sympathetic anguish for posterity, which would be certain to 


PIERRE. 


345 


stand hopelessly perplexed before so many contradictory signa- 
tures of one supereminent name. Alas! posterity would be 
sure to conclude that they were forgeries all ; that no chhogra- 
phic relic of the sublime poet Glendinning survived to their 
miserable times. 

From the proprietors of the Magazines whose pages were 
honored by his effusions, he received very pressing epistolary 
solicitations for the loan of his portrait in oil, in order to take 
an engraving therefrom, for a frontispiece to their periodicals. 
But here again the most melancholy considerations obtruded. 
It had always been one of the lesser ambitions of Pien-e, to 
sport a flowing beard, which he deemed the most noble corpo- 
real badge of the man, not to speak of the illustrious author. 
But as yet he was beardless ; and no cunning compound of 
Rowland and Son could force a beard which should arrive at 
maturity in any reasonable time for the frontispiece. Besides, 
his boyish features and whole expression were daily changing. 
Would he lend his authority to this unprincipled imposture 
upon Posterity ? Honor forbade. 

These epistolary petitions were generally couched in an elab- 
orately respectful style ; thereby intimating with what deep 
reverence his portrait would be handled, while unavoidably 
subjected to the discipline indispensable to obtain from it the 
engraved copy they prayed for. But one or two of the persons 
who made occasional oral requisitions upon him in this matter 
of his engraved portrait, seemed less regardful of the inherent 
respect due to every man’s portrait, much more, to that of a 
genius so celebrated as Pierre. They did not even seem to re- 
member that the portrait of any man generally receives, and 
indeed is entitled to more reverence than the original man him- 
self; since one may freely clap a celebrated friend on the 
shoulder, yet would by no means tweak his nose in his portrait. 
The reason whereof may be this : that the portrait is better en- 
titled to reverence than the man; inasmuch as nothing be- 


346 


PIEREE. 


littling can be imagined concerning the portrait, whereas many 
unavoidably belittling things can be fancied as touching the 
man. 

Upon one occasion, happening suddenly to encounter a 
literary acquaintance — a joint editor of the “ Captain Kidd 
Monthly” — who suddenly popped upon him round a comer, 
Pierre was startled by a rapid — “ Good-morning, good-morn- 
ing ; — just the man I wanted : — come, step round now with 
me, and have your Daguerreotype taken ; — get it engraved 
then in no time want it for the next issue.” 

So saying, this chief mate af Captain Kidd seized Pierre’s 
arm, and in the most vigorous manner was walking him off, 
like an officer a pickpocket, when Pierre civilly said — “ Pray, 
sir, hold, if you please, I shall do no such thing.” — “ Pooh, 
pooh — ^must have it— public property — come along — only a 
door or two now.” — “ Public property !” rejoined Pierre, “ that 
may do very well for the ‘ Captain Kidd Monthly — ^it’s very 
Captain Kiddish to say so. But I beg to repeat that I do 
not intend to accede.” — “Don’t? Really?” cried the other, 
amazedly staring Pierre full in the countenance ; — ■“ why bless 
your soul, my portrait is published — long ago published !” — 
“ Can’t help that, sir” — ^said Pierre. “ Oh ! come along, come 
along,” and the chief mate seized him again with the most 
uncompunctious familiarity by the arm. Though the sweetest- 
tempered youth in the world when but decently treated, Pierre 
had an ugly devil in him sometimes, very apt to be evoked by 
the personal profaneness of gentlemen of the Captain Kidd 
school of literature. “Look you, my good fellow,” said he, 
submitting to his impartial inspection a determinately double 
fist, — “drop my arm now — or I’ll drop you. To the devil 
with you and your Daguerreotype !” 

This incident, suggestive as it was at the time, in the sequel 
had a surprising effect upon Pierre. For he considered with 
what infinite readiness now, the most faithful portrait of any one 


PIERRE. 


847 


could be taken by the Daguerreotype, whereas in former times 
a faithful portrait was only within the power of the moneyed, 
or mental aristocrats of the earth. How natural then the in- 
ference, that instead, as in old times, immortalizing a genius, 
a portrait now only dayalized a dunce. Besides, when every 
body has his portrait published, true distinction lies in not hav- 
ing yours published at all. For if you are published along 
with Tom, Dick, and Harry, and wear a coat of their cut, how 
then are you distinct from Tom, Dick, and Harry ? Therefore, 
even so miserable a motive as downright personal vanity helped 
to operate in this matter with Pierre. 

Some zealous lovers of the general literature of the age, as 
well as declared devotees to his own great genius, frequently 
petitioned him for the materials wherewith to frame his biog- 
raphy. They assured him, that life of all things was most 
insecure. He might feel many years in him yet ; time might 
go lightly by him ; but in any sudden and fatal sickness, how 
would his last hours be embittered by the thought, that he was 
about to depart forever, leaving the world utterly unprovided 
with the knowledge of what were the precise texture and hue 
of the first trowsers he wore. These representations did cer- 
tainly touch him in a very tender spot, not previously unknown 
to the schoolmaster. But when Pierre considered, that owing 
to his extreme youth, his own recollections of the past soon 
merged into all manner of half-memories and a general vague- 
ness, he could not find it in his conscience to present such ma- 
terials to the impatient biographers, especially as his chief verify- 
ing authority in these matters of his past career, was now eter- 
nally departed beyond all human appeal. His excellent nurse 
Clarissa had been dead four yearn and more. In vain a young 
literary friend, the well-known author of two Indexes and one 
Epic, to whom the subject happened to be mentioned, warmly 
espoused the cause of the distressed biogTaphers ] saying that 


348 


PIERRE. 


however unpleasant, one must needs pay the penalty of celeb- 
rity ; it was no use to stand back ; and concluded by taking 
from the crown of his hat the proof-sheets of his own biogra- 
phy, which, with the most thoughtful consideration for the 
masses, was shortly to be published in the pamphlet form, price 
only a shilling. 

It only the more bewildered and pained him, when still other 
and less delicate applicants sent him their regularly printed 
Biographico-Solicito Circulars^ with his name written in ink ; 
begging him to honor them and the world with a neat draft of 
his life, including criticisms on his own writings ; the printed 
circular indiscriminately protesting, that undoubtedly he knew 
more of his own life than any other living man ; and that only he 
who had put together the great works of Glendinning could 
be fully qualified thoroughly to analyze them, and cast the ulti- 
mate judgment upon their remarkable construction. 

Now, it was under the influence of the humiliating emotions 
engendered by things like the above ; it was when thus haunted 
by publishers, engravers, editors, critics, autograph-collectors, 
portrait-fanciers, biographers, and petitioning and, remonstrating 
literary friends of all sorts ; it was then, that there stole into 
the youthful soul of Pien’e, melancholy forebodings of the ut- 
ter unsatisfactoriness of all human fame ; since the most ardent 
proflferings of the most martyrizing demonstrations in his be- 
half, — these he was sorrowfully obliged to turn away. 

And it may well be believed, that after the wonderful vital 
world-revelation so suddenly made to Pierre at the Meadows — 
a revelation which, at moments, in some certain things, fairly 
Timonized him — ^he had not failed to clutch with peculiar ner- 
vous detestation and contempt that ample parcel, containing 
the letters of his Biographico and other silly correspondents, 
which, in a less ferocious hour, he had filed away as curiosities. 
It was with an almost infernal grin, that he saw that particular 


PIERRE. 


349 


heap of rubbish eternally quenched in the fire, and felt that as 
it was consumed before his eyes, so in his soul was forever 
killed the last and minutest undeveloped microscopic germ of 
that most despicable vanity to which those absurd correspond- 
ents thought to appeal. 



: _ ^ BOOK XVIII. 

PIERRE, AS A JUVENILE AUTHOR, RECONSIDERED. 

I < ' 

L7 ... 

, Inasmuch as by various indirect intimations much more 
than ordinary natural genius has been imputed to Pierre, it 
may have seemed an inconsistency, that only the merest maga- 
zine papers should have been thus far the sole productions of 
his mind. Nor need it be added, that, in the soberest earned 
those papers contained nothing uncommon ; indeed — entirely 
now to drop all irony, if hitherto any thing like that has been 
indulged in — those fugitive things of Master Pierre’s were the 
veriest common -place. 

It is true, as I long before said, that Nature at Saddle Mead- 
ows had very early been as a benediction to Pierre ; — had 
blown her wind-clarion to him from the blue hills, and mur- 
mured ' melodious secrecies to him by her streams and her 
woods. But while nature thus very early and very abundantly 
feeds us, she is very late in tutoring us as to the proper metho- 
dization of our diet. Or, — to. change the metaphor, — there 
are immense quarries of fine marble ; but how to get it out ; 
how to chisel it; how to construct any temple ? Youth must 
wholly quit, then, the quarry, for awhile ; and not only go 
forth, and get tools to use in the quarry, but must go and 
thoroughly study architecture. Now the quarry-discoverer is 
long before the stone-cutter ; and the stone-cutter is long be- 


PIERRE. 


351 


fore the architect ; and the architect is long before the temple ; 
for the temple is the crown of the world. 

Yes ; Pierre was not only very unarchitectural at that time, 
but Pierre was very young, indeed, at that time. And it is 
often to be observed, that as in digging for precious metals in 
the mines, much earthy rubbish has first to be troublesomely 
handled and thrown out ; so, in digging in one’s soul for the 
fine gold of genius, much dullness and common-place is first 
brought to light. Happy would it be, if the man possessed in 
himself some receptacle for his own rubbish of this sort : but 
he is like the occupant of a dwelling, whose refuse can not be 
clapped into his own cellai’, but must be deposited in the street 
before his own door, for the public functionaries to take care 
of. Ho common-place is ever effectually got rid of, except by 
essentially emptying one’s self of it into a book ; for once 
trapped in a book, then the book can be put into the fire, and 
all will be well. But they are not always put into the fire ; 
and this accounts for the vast majority of miserable books over 
those of positive merit. Hor will any thoroughly sincere man, 
who is an author, ever be rash in precisely defining the period, 
when he has completely ridded himself of his rubbish, and 
come to the latent gold in his mine. It holds true, in every 
case, that the wiser a man is, the more misgivings he has on 
certain points. 

It is well enough known, that the best productions of the 
best human intellects, are generally regarded by those intellects 
as mere immature freshman exercises, wholly worthless in 
themselves, except as initiatives for entering the great Univer- 
sity of God after death. Certain it is, that if any inferences can 
be drawn from observations of the familiar lives of men of the 
greatest mark, their finest things, those which become the fool- 
ish glory of the world, are not only very poor and inconsidera- 
ble to themselves, but often positively distasteful ; they would 
rather not have the book in the room. In minds comparatively 


852 


PI EKEE. 


inferior as compared ■vvitli the above, these surmising considera- 
tions so sadden and unfit, that they become careless of what 
they write ; go to their desks with discontent, and only remain 
there — victims to headache, and pain in the back — ^by the hard 
constraint of some social necessity. Equally paltry and despi- 
cable to them, are the works thus composed ; born of unwilling- 
ness and the bill of the baker the rickety oiOfepring of a parent, 
careless of life herself, and reckless of the germ-life she contains. 
Let not the short-sighted world for a moment imagine, that 
any vanity lurks in such minds ; only hired to appear on the 
stage, not voluntarily claiming the public attention ; their ut- 
most life-redness and glow is but rouge, washed oflf in private 
with bitterest tears ; their laugh only rings because it is hollow ; 
and the answering laugh is no laughter to them. 

There is nothing so slipperily alluring as sadness; we be- 
come sad in the first place by having nothing stirring to do ; 
we continue in it, because we have found a snug sofa at last. 
Even so, it may possibly be, that anived at this quiet retro- 
spective little episode in the career of my hero — this shallowly 
expansive embayed Tappan Zee of my otherwise deep-heady 
Hudson — I too begin to loungingly expand, and wax harm- 
lessly sad and sentimental. 

Now, what has been hitherto presented in reference to 
Pierre, concerning rubbish, as in some cases the unavoidable 
first-fruits of genius, is in no wise contradicted by the fact, that 
the first published works of many meritorious authors have 
given mature token of genius ; for we do not know how many 
they previously published to the flames ; or privately published 
in their own brains, and suppressed there as quickly. And in 
the inferior instances of an immediate literary success, in veiy 
young writers, it will be almost invariably observable, that for 
that instant success they were chiefly indebted to some rich and 
peculiar experience in life, embodied in a book, which because, 
for that cause, containing original matter, the author himself. 


PIERRE. 


853 


forsooth, is to be considered original ; in this way, many very 
original books, being the product of very unoriginal minds. 
Indeed, man has only to be but a little circumspect, and away 
flies the last rag of his vanity. The world is forever babbling 
of originality ; but there never yet was an original man, in the 
sense intended by the world ; the first man himself — who ac- 
cording to the Rabbins was also the first author — not being an 
original ; the only original author being God. Had Milton’s 
been the lot of Caspar Hauser, Milton would have been vacant 
as he. For though the naked soul of man doth assuredly con- 
tain one latent element of intellectual productiveness ; yet never 
was there a child born solely from one parent ; the visible world 
of experience being that procreative thing which impregnates 
the muses ; self-reciprocally efficient hermaphrodites being but 
a fable. 

There is infinite nonsense in the world on all of these mat- 
ters ; hence blame me not if I contribute my mite. It is im- 
possible to talk or to write without apparently throwing one- 
self helplessly open ; the Invulnerable Knight wears his visor 
down. Still, it is pleasant to chat ; for it passes the time ere 
we go to our beds ; and speech is further incited, when like 
strolling improvisatores of Italy, we are paid for our breath. 
And we are only too thankful when the gapes of the audience 
dismiss us with the few ducats we earn. 


II. 

It may have been already inferred, that the pecuniary plans 
of Pierre touching his independent means of support in the 
city were based upon his presumed literary capabilities. For 
what else could he do? He knew no profession, no trade. 
Glad now perhaps might he have been, if Fate had made him 


354 


PIEREE. 


a blacksmith, and not a gentleman, a Glendinning, and a ge- 
nius. But here he would have been unpardonably rash, had 
he not already, in some degree, actually tested the fact, in his 
own personal experience, that it is not altogether impossible for 
a magazine contributor to Juvenile American literature to re- 
ceive a few pence in exchange for his ditties. Such cases stand 
upon imperishable record, and it were both folly and ingratitude 
to disown them. 

But since the fine social position and noble patrimony of 
Pierre, had thus far rendered it altogether unnecessary for him 
to earn the least farthing of his own in the world, whether by 
hand or by brain; it may seem desirable to explain a little 
here as we go. We shall do so, but always including, the pre- 
amble. 

Sometimes every possible maxim or thought seems an old 
one ; yet it is among the elder of the things in that unaugment- 
able stock, that never mind what one’s situation may be, how- 
ever prosperous and happy, he will still be impatient of it ; he 
will still reach out of himself, and beyond every present con- 
dition. So, while many a poor be-inked galley-slave, toiling 
with the heavy oar of a quill, to gain something wherewithal 
to stave off the cravings of nature ; and in his hours of morbid 
self-reproach, regarding his paltry wages, at all events, as an 
unavoidable disgrace to him ; while this galley-slave of letters 
would have leaped with delight — reckless of the feeble seams 
of his pantaloons — at the most distant prospect of inheriting 
the broad farms of Saddle Meadows, lord of an all-sufificing in- 
come, and forever exempt from wearing on his hands those 
treacherous plague-spots of indigence — videlicet, blots from the 
inkstand ; — ^Pierre himself, the undoubted and actual possessor of 
the things only longingly and hopelessly imagined by the other ; 
the then top of Pierre’s worldly ambition, was the being able 
to boast that he had written such matters as publishers would 
pay something for in the way of a mere business transaction, 


PIERRE. 


355 


which they thought would prove profitable. Yet altogether 
weak and silly as this may seem in Pierre, let us preambilli- 
cally examine a little further, and see if it he so indeed. 

Pierre was proud ; and a proud man — proud with the sort 
of pride now meant — ever holds but lightly those things, how- 
ever beneficent, which he did not for himself procure. Were 
such pride carried out to its legitimate end, the man would eat 
no bread, the seeds whereof he had not himself put into the 
soil, not entirely without humiliation, that even that seed must 
be borrowed from some previous planter. A proud man likes 
to feel himself in himself and not by reflection in others. He 
likes to be not only his own Alpha and Omega, but to be dis- 
tinctly all the intermediate gradations, and then to slope off on 
his own spine either way, into the endless impalpable ether. 
What a glory it was then to Pierre, when first in his two gen- 
tlemanly hands he jingled the wages of labor ! Talk of drums 
and the fife ; the echo of coin of one’s own earning is more in- 
spiring than all the trumpets of Sparta. How disdainfully now 
he eyed the sumptuousness of his hereditary halls — the hang- 
ings, and the pictures, and the bragging historic armorials and 
the banners of the Glendinning renown ; confident, that if need 
should come, he would not be forced to turn resurrectionist, and 
dig up his grandfather’s Indian-chief gi-ave for the ancestral 
sword and shield, ignominiously to pawn them for a living ! 
He could live on himself. Oh, twice-blessed now, in the feeling 
of practical capacity, was Pierre. 

The mechanic, the day-laborer, has but one way to live ; his 
body must provide for his body. But not only could Pierre in 
some sort, do that ; he could do the other ; and letting his 
body stay lazily at home, send olf his soul to labor, and his 
soul would come faithfully back and pay his body her wages. 
So, some unprofessional gentlemen of the aristocratic South, 
who happen to own slaves, give those slaves liberty to go and 
seek work, and every night return with their wages, which con- 


856 


PIERRE. 


stitute those idle gentlemen’s income. Both ambidexter and 
quadruple-armed is that man, who in a day-laborer’s body, pos- 
sesses a day-lahoriug soul. Yet let not such an one be over- 
confident. Our God is a jealous God ; He wills not that any 
man should permanently possess the least shadow of His own 
self-sufficient attributes. Yoke the body to the soul, and put 
both to the plough, and the one or the other must in the end 
assuredly drop in the furrow. Keep, then, thy body effeminate 
for labor, and thy soul laboriously robust ; or else thy soul 
effeminate for labor, and thy body laboriously robust. Elect ! 
the two will not lastingly abide in one yoke. Thus over the 
most vigorous and soaring conceits, doth the cloud of Truth 
come stealing ; thus doth the shot, even of a sixty-two-pounder 
pointed upward, light at last on the earth ; for strive we how 
we may, we can not overshoot the earth’s orbit, to receive the 
attractions of other planets ; Earth’s law of gravitation extends 
far beyond her own atmosphere. 

In the operative opinion of this world, he who is already 
fully provided with what is necessaiy for him, that man shkll 
have more ; while he who is deplorably destitute of the same, 
he shall have taken away from him even that which he hath. 
Yet the world vows it is a very plain, downright matter-of- 
fact, plodding, humane sort of world. It is governed only by 
the simplest principles, and scorns all ambiguities, all transcen- 
dental, and all manner of juggling. Now some imaginatively 
heterodoxical men are often surprisingly twitted upon their 
willful inverting of all common-sense notions, their absurd and 
all-displacing transcendental, which say three is four, and two 
and two make ten. But if the eminent Jugglarius himself 
ever advocated in mere words a doctrine one thousandth part 
so ridiculous and subversive of all practical sense, as that doc- 
trine which the world actually and eternally practices, of giving 
unto him who already hath more than enough, still more of 
the superfluous article, and taking away from him who hath 


P lEREE. 


857 


nothing at all, even that which he hath, — then is the truest 
book in the world a lie. 

Wherefore we see that the so-called Transeendentalists are 
not the only people who deal in Transcendentals. On the con- 
trary, we seem to see that the Utilitarians, — ^the every-day 
world’s people themselves, far transcend those inferior Tran- 
scendentalists by their own incomprehensible worldly maxims. 
And — what is vastly more — with the one party, their Tran- 
scendentals are but theoretic and inactive, and therefore 
harmless ; whereas with the other, they are actually clothed in 
living deeds. 

The highly graveling doctrine and practice of the world, 
above cited, had in some small degree been manifested in the 
case of Pierre. He prospectively possessed the fee of several 
hundred farms scattered over part of two adjoining counties ; and 
now the proprietor of that popular periodical, the Gazelle Maga- 
zine, sent him several additional dollars for his sonnets. That 
proprietor (though in sooth, he never read the sonnets, but re- 
ferred them to his professional adviser; and was so ignorant, 
that, for a long time previous to the periodical’s actually be- 
ing started, he insisted upon spelling the Gazelle with a g for 
the 2, as thus : Gagelle ; maintaining, that in the Gazelle con- 
nection, the 0 was a mere impostor, and that the g was soft ; 
for he was a judge of softness, and could speak from experi- 
ence) ; that proprietor was undoubtedly a Transcendentalist ; 
for did he not act upon the Transcendental doctrine previously 
set forth ? 

Now, the dollars derived from his ditties, these Pierre had 
always invested in cigars ; so that the puffs which indirectly 
brought him his dollars were again returned, but as perfumed 
puffs; perfumed with the sweet leaf of Havanna. So that 
this highly-celebrated and world-renowned Pierre— the great 
author— whose likeness the world had never seen (for had he 
not repeatedly refused the world his likeness?), this famous 


358 


PIERRE. 


poet, and philosopher, author of “ The Tropical Summer : a 
Sonnet against whose very life several desperadoes were 
darkly plotting (for had not the biographers sworn they would 
have it ?) ; this towering celebrity — ^there he would sit smoking, 
and smoking, mild and self-festooned as a vapory mountain. 
It was very involuntarily and satisfactorily reciprocal. His 
cigars were lighted in two ways : lighted by the sale of his 
sonnets, and lighted by the printed sonnets themselves. 

For even at that early time in his authorial life, Pierre, 
however vain of his fame, was not at all proud of his paper. 
Not only did he make allumettes of his sonnets when pub- 
lished, but was very careless about his discarded manuscripts; 
they were to be found lying all round the house ; gave a great 
deal of trouble to the housemaids in sweeping ; went for kind- 
lings to the fires ; and were forever flitting out of the windows, 
and under the door-sills, into the faces of people passing the 
manorial mansion. In this reckless, indifferent way of his, 
Pierre himself was a sort of publisher. It is true his more 
familiar admirers often earnestly remonstrated with him, against 
this irreverence to the primitive vestments of his immortal pro- 
ductions ; saying, that whatever had once felt the nib of his 
mighty pen, was thenceforth sacred as the lips which had but 
once saluted the great toe of the Pope. But hardened as he 
was to these friendly censurings, Pierre never forbade that 
ardent appreciation of “ The Tear,” who, finding a small frag- 
ment of the original manuscript containing a dot {tear)^ over an 
i (eye), esteemed the significant event providential; and beg- 
ged the distinguished favor of being permitted to have it for a 
brooch ; and ousted a cameo-head of Homer, to replace it with 
the more invaluable gem. He became inconsolable, when being 
caught in a rain, the dot (tear) disappeared from over the i (eye ) ; 
so that the strangeness and wonderfulness of the sonnet was still 
conspicuous; in that though the least fragment of it could 
weep in a drought, yet did it become all tearless in a shower. 


PIEKRB. 


859 


But this indifferent and supercilious amateur — deaf to the 
admiration of the world ; the enigmatically merry and renowned 
author of “ The Tear the pride of the Gazelle Magazine, on 
whose flaunting cover his name figured at the head of all con- 
tributors — (no small men either ; for their lives had all been 
fraternally written by each other, and they had clubbed, and 
had their likenesses all taken by the aggregate job, and pub- 
lished on paper, all bought at one shop) this high-prestiged 
Pierre — whose future popularity and voluminousness had be- 
come so startlingly announced by what he had already written, 
that certain speculators came to the Meadows to survey its 
water-power, if any, with a view to start a paper-mill expressly 
for the great author, and so monopolize his stationery dealings ; 
— this vast being, — spoken of with awe by all merely youthful 
aspirants for fame ; this- age-neutralizing Pierre ; — before whom 
an old gentleman of sixty-five, formerly librarian to Congress, 
on being introduced to him at the Magazine publishers’, de- 
voutly took off his hat, and kept it so, and remained standing, 
though Pierre was socially seated with his hat on ; — ^this won- 
derful, disdainful genius — but only life-amateur as yet — ^is now 
soon to appear in a far different guise. He shall now learn, 
and very bitterly learn, that though the world worship Medioc- 
rity and Common Place, yet hath it fire and sword for all con- 
temporary Grandeur ; that though it swears that it fiercely as- 
sails all Hypocrisy, yet hath it not always an ear for Earnestness. 

And though this state of things, united with the ever multi- 
plying freshets of new books, seems inevitably to point to a 
coming time, when the mass of humanity reduced to one level 
of dotage, authors shall be scarce as alchymists are to-day, and 
the printing-press be reckoned a small invention: — yet even 
now, in the foretaste of this let us hug om-selves, oh, my 
Aurelian ! that though the age of authors be passing, the 
hours of earnestness shall remain ! 


BOOK XIX. 


THE CHURCH OF THE APOSTLES. 


I. 

In the lower old-fashioned part of the city, in a narrow street 
—almost a lane— once filled with demure-looking dwellings, but 
now chiefly with immense lofty warehouses of foreign impor- 
ters ; and not far from the corner where the lane intersected 
with a very considerable but contracted thoroughfare for mer- 
chants and their clerks, and their carmen and porters ; stood at 
this period a rather singular and ancient edifice, a relic of the 
more primitive time. The material was a grayish stone, rudely 
cut and masoned into walls of surprising thickness and strength ; 
along two of which walls — ^the side ones— were distributed as 
many rows of arched and stately windows. A capacious, 
square, and wholly unornamented tower rose in fi-ont to twice 
the height of the body of the church ; three sides of this tower 
were pierced with small and narrow apertures. Thus far, in its 
external aspect, the building — now more than a century old, — 
suflBciently attested for what purpose it had originally been 
founded. In its rear, was a large and lofty plain brick struc- 
ture, with its front to the rearward street, but its back presented 
to the back of the church, leaving a small, flagged, and quad- 
rangular vacancy between. At the sides of this quadrangle, 
thi-ee stories of homely brick colonnades afibrded covered com- 
munication between the ancient church, and its less elderly 


PIEBRB. 


361 


adjunct. A dismantled, rusted, and forlorn old railing of iron 
fencing in a small courtyard in front of the rearward building, 
seemed to hint, that the latter had usurped an unoccupied space 
formerly sacred as the old church’s burial inclosure. Such a 
fancy would have been entirely true. Built when that part of 
the city was devoted to private residences, and not to ware- 
houses and offices as now, the old Church of the Apostles had 
had its days of sanctification and grace ; but the tide of change 
and progress had rolled clean through its broad-aisle and side- 
aisles, and swept by far the greater part of its congregation 
two or three miles up town. Some stubborn and elderly old 
merchants and accountants, lingered awhile among its dusty 
pews, listening to the exhortations of a faithful old pastor, who, 
sticking to his post in this flight of his congregation, still 
propped his half-palsied form in the worm-eaten pulpit, and 
occasionally pounded — though now with less vigorous hand — 
the moth-eaten covering of its desk. But it came to pass, that 
this good old clergyman died ; and when the gray-headed and 
bald-headed remaining merchants and accountants followed his 
coffin out of the broad-aisle to see it reverently interred ; then 
that was the last time that ever the eld edifice witnessed the 
departure of a regular worshiping assembly from its walls. 
The venerable merchants and accountants held a meeting, at 
which it was finally decided, that, hard and unwelcome as the 
necessity might be, yet it was now no use to disguise the fact, 
that the building could no longer be efficiently devoted to its 
primitive purpose. It must be divided into stores ; cut into 
offices ; and given for a roost to the gregarious lawyers. This 
intention was executed, even to the making offices high up in 
the tower 5 and so well did the thing succeed, that ultimately 
the church-yard was invaded for a supplemental edifice, like- 
wise to be promiscuously rented to the legal crowd. But this 
new building very much exceeded the body of the church in 
height. It was some seven stories ; a fearful pile of Titanic 

Q 


862 


PIER R E. 


bricks, lifting its tiled roof almost to a level with the top of the 
sacred tower. 

In this ambitious erection the proprietors went a few steps, or 
rather a few stories, too far. For as people would seldom will- 
ingly fall into legal altercations unless the lawyers were always 
very handy to help them ; so it is ever an object with lawyers 
to have their offices as convenient as feasible to the street ; on 
the ground-floor, if possible, without a single acclivity of a step ; 
but at any rate not in the seventh story of any house, where 
their clients might be deterred from employing them at all, if 
they were compelled to mount seven long flights of stairs, one 
over the other, with very brief landings, in order even to pay 
their preliminary retaining fees. So, from some time after its 
throwing open, the upper stories of the less ancient attached 
edifice remained almost wholly without occupants ; and by the 
forlorn echoes of their vacuities, right over the head of the 
business-thriving legal gentlemen below, must — to some few of 
them at least — ^liave suggested unwelcome similitudes, having 
reference to the crowded state of their basement-pockets, as 
compared with the melancholy condition of their attics ; — alas ! 
full purses and empty h^ads ! This dreary posture of affairs, 
however, was at last much altered for the better, by the grad- 
ual filling up of the vacant chambei-s on high, by scores of 
those miscellaneous, bread-and-cheese adventurers, and ambigu- 
ously professional nondescripts in very genteel but shabby 
blacky and unaccountable foreign-looking fellows in blue spec- 
tacles ; who, previously issuing from unknown parts of the 
world, like storks in Holland, light on the eaves, and in the at- 
tics of lofty old buildings in most large sea-port towns. Here 
they sit and talk like magpies ; or descending in quest of im- 
probable dinners, are to be seen drawn up along the curb in 
front of the eating-houses, like lean rows of broken-hearted 
pelicans on a beach ; their pockets loose, hanging down and 
flabby, like the pelican’s pouches when fish are hard to be caught. 


PIERRE. 


863 


But these poor, penniless devils still strive to make ample 
amends for their physical forlornness, by resolutely reveling in 
the region of blissful ideals. 

They are mostly artists of various soiis ; painters, or sculp- 
tors, or indigent students, or teachers of languages, or poets, or 
fugitive French politicians, or German philosophers. Their 
mental tendencies, however heterodox at times, are still veiy 
fine and spiritual upon the whole ; since the vacuity of their 
exchequers leads them to reject the coarse materialism of Hobbs, 
and incline to the airy exaltations of the Berkelyan philosophy. 
Often groping in vain in their pockets, they can not but give in 
to the Descartian vortices ; while the abundance of leisure in 
their attics (physical and figurative), unite with the leisure in 
their stomachs, to fit them in an eminent degree for that undi- 
vided attention indispensable to the proper digesting of the 
sublimated Categories of Kant ; especially as Kant (can’t) is 
the one great palpable fact in their pervadingly impalpable lives. 
These are the glorious paupers, from whom I learn the pro- 
foundest mysteries of things ; since their very existence in the 
midst of such a terrible precariousness of the commonest means 
of support, affords a problem on which many speculative nut- 
crackers have been vainly employed. Yet let me here offer up 
three locks of my hair, to the memory of all such glorious pau- 
pers who have lived and died in this world. Surely, and truly 
I honor them — noble men often at bottom — and for that very 
reason I make bold to be gamesome about them ; for where 
fundamental nobleness is, and fundamental honor is due, mer- 
riment is never accounted in-everent. The fools and pretenders 
of humanity, and the impostors and baboons among the gods, 
these only are offended with raillery ; since both those gods 
and men whose titles to eminence are secure, seldom worry 
themselves about the seditious gossip of old apple-women, and 
the skylarkings of funny little boys in the street. 

When the substance is gone, men cling to the shadow. 


864 


PIEERE. 


Places once set apart to lofty purposes, still retain the name of 
that loftiness, even when converted to the meanest uses. It 
would seem, as if forced by imperative Fate to renounce the 
reality of the romantic and lofty, the people of the present 
would fain make a compromise by retaining some purely 
imaginative remainder. The curious effects of this tendency 
is oftenest evinced in those venerable countries of the old 
transatlantic world ; where still over the Thames one bridge 
yet retains the monastic title of Blackfriars ; though not a 
single Black Friar, but many a pickpocket, has stood on that 
bank since a good ways beyond the days of Queen Bess; 
where still innumerable other historic anomalies sweetly and 
sadly remind the present man of the wonderful procession that 
preceded him in his new generation. Nor — though the com- 
parative recentness of our own foundation upon these Colum- 
bian shores, excludes any considerable participation in these 
attractive anomalies, — ^yet are we not altogether, in our more 
elderly towns, wholly without some touch of them, here and 
there. It was thus with the ancient Church of the Apostles — 
better known, even in its primitive day, under the abbreviative 
of The Apostles — which, though now converted from its origi- 
nal purpose to one so widely contrasting, yet still retained its 
majestical name. The lawyer or artist tenanting its chambers, 
whether in the new building or the old, when asked where he 
was to be found, invariably replied , — At the Apostles\ But 
because now, at last, in the course of the inevitable transplanta- 
tions of the more notable localities of the various professions 
in a thriving and amplifying town, the venerable spot offered 
not such inducements as before to the legal gentlemen ; and as 
the strange nondescript adventurers and artists, and indigent 
philosophers of all sorts, crowded in as fast as the others left ; 
therefore, in reference to the metaphysical strangeness of these 
curious inhabitants, and owing in some sort to the circum- 
stance, that several of them were well-known Teleological 


PIERRE. 


365 


Theorists, and Social Reformers, and political propagandists 
of all manner of heterodoxical tenets ; therefore, I say, and 
partly, peradventure, from some slight waggishness in the 
pnbhc ; the immemorial popular name of the ancient church 
itself was participatingly transferred to the dwellers therein. 
So it came to pass, that in the general fashion of the day, he 
who had chambers in the old church was familiarly styled an 
Apostle. 

But as every effect is but the cause of another and a subse- 
quent one, so it now happened that finding themselves thus 
clannishly, and not altogether infelicitously entitled, the occu- 
pants of the venerable church began to come together out of 
their various dens, in more social communion; attracted 
toward each other by a title common to all. By-and-by, from 
this, they went further ; and insensibly, at last became organ- 
ized in a peculiar society, which, though exceedingly incon- 
spicuous, and hardly perceptible in its public demonstrations, 
was still secretly suspected to have some mysterious ulterior 
object, vaguely connected with the absolute overturning of 
Church and State, and the hasty and premature advance of 
some unknown great political and religious Millennium. Still, 
though some zealous conservatives and devotees of morals, 
several times left warning at the police-office, to keep a wary 
eye on the old church; and though, indeed, sometimes an 
officer would look up inquiringly at the suspicious narrow win- 
dow-slits in the lofty tower ; yet, to say the truth, was the 
place, to all appearance, a very quiet and decorous one, and 
its occupants a company of harmless people, whose greatest re- 
proach was efflorescent coats and crack-crowned hats all 
podding in the sun. 

Though in the middle of the day many bales and boxes 
would be trundled along the stores in front of the Apostles’ ; 
and along its critically narrow sidewalk, the merchants would 
now and then hurry to meet their checks ere the banks should 


366 


PIERRE. 


close : yet the street, being mostly devoted to mere warehous- 
ing purposes, and not used as a general thoroughfare, it was at 
all times a rather secluded and silent place. But from an hour 
or two before sundown to ten or eleven o’clock the next morn- 
ing, it was remarkably silent and depopulated, except by the 
Apostles themselves ; while every Sunday it presented an as- 
pect of surprising 'and startling quiescence ; showing nothing 
but one long vista of six or seven stories of inexorable iron shut- 
ters on both sides of the way. It was pretty much the same 
with the other street, which, as before said, intersected with the 
warehousing lane, not very far from the Apostles’. For though 
that street was indeed a dhferent one from the latter, being full 
of cheap refectories for clerks, foreign restaurants, and other 
places of commercial resort ; yet the only hum in it was re- 
stricted to business hours ; by night it was deserted of every 
occupant but the lamp-posts ; and on Sunday, to walk through 
it, was like walking through an avenue of sphinxes. 

Such, then, was the present condition of the ancient Church 
of the Apostles ; buzzing with a few lingering, equivocal law- 
yers in the basement, and populous with all sorts of poets, 
paintere, paupers and philosophers above. A mysterious pro- 
fessor of the flute was perched in one of the upper stories of the 
tower ; and often, of silent, moonlight nights, his lofty, melodious 
notes would be warbled forth over the roofs of the ten thousand 
warehouses around him — as of yore, the bell had pealed over 
the domestic gables of a long-departed generation. 


II. 

On the third night following the arrival of the party in the 
city, Pierre sat at twilight by a lofty window in the rear build- 
ing of the Apostles’. The chamber was meager even to mean- 


PIEERE. 


367 


ness. No carpet on the floor, no picture on the wall ; nothing 
but a low, long, and very curious-looking single bedstead, that 
might possibly serve for an indigent bachelor’s pallet, a large, 
blue, chintz-covered chest, a rickety, rheumatic, and most an- 
cient mahogany chair, and a wide board of the toughest live- 
oak, about six feet long, laid upon two upright empty flour- 
barrels, and loaded with a large bottle of ink, an unfastened 
bundle of quills, a pen-knife, a folder, and a still unbound ream 
of foolscap paper, significantly s'^tamped, “ Ruled ; Blue,” 

Therey on the third night, at twilight, sat Pierre by that lofty 
window of a beggarly room in the rear-building of the Apos- 
tles’. He was entirely idle, apparently ; there was nothing in 
his hands ; but there might have been something on his heart. 
Now and then he fixedly gazes at the curious-looking, rusty 
old bedstead. It seemed powerfully symbolical to him ; and 
most symbolical it was. For it was the ancient dismeinberable 
and portable camp-bedstead of his grandfather, the defiant de- 
fender of the Fort, the valiant captain in many an unsuccumb- 
ing campaign. On that very camp-bedstead, there, beneath 
his tent on the field, the glorious old mild-eyed and warrior- 
hearted general had slept, and but waked to buckle his knight- 
making sword by his side ; for it was noble knighthood to be 
slain by grand Pierre ; in the other world his foes’ ghosts 
bragged of the hand that had given them their passports. 

But has that hard bed of War, descended for an inheritance 
to the soft body of Peace ? In the peaceful time of full barns, 
and when the noise of the peaceful flail is abroad, and the hum 
of peaceful commerce resounds, is the grandson of two Generals 
a warrior too ? Oh, not for naught, in the time of this seem- 
ing peace, are warrior grandsires given to Pierre ! For Pierre 
is a warrior too ; Life his campaign, and three fierce allies. Woe 
and Scorn and Want, his foes. The wide world is banded 
against him ; for lo you ! he holds up the standard of Right,^ 
and swears by the Eternal and True ! But ah, Pierre, Pierre, 


368 


PI EKRE. 


when thou goest to that bed, how humbling the thought, that 
thy most extended length measures not the proud six feet four 
of thy grand John of Gaunt sire ! The stature of the warrior 
is cut down to the dwindled glory of the fight. For more glo- 
rious in real tented field to strike down your valiant foe, than 
in the conflicts of a noble soul with a dastardly world to chase 
a vile enemy who ne’er will show front. 

There, then, on the third night, at twilight, by the lofty win- 
dow of that beggarly room, sat Pierre in the rear building of 
the Apostles’. He is gazing out from the window now. But 
except the donjon form of the old gray tower, seemingly there 
is nothing to see but a wilderness of tiles, slate, shingles, and 
tin ; — the desolate hanging wildernesses of tiles, slate, shingles 
and tin, wherewith we modern Babylonians replace the fair 
hanging-gardens of the fine old Asiatic times when the excel- 
lent Nebuchadnezzar was king. 

There he sits, a strange exotic, transplanted from the delec- 
table alcoves of the old manorial mansion, to take root in this 
niggard soil. No more do the sweet purple airs of the hills 
round about the green fields of Saddle Meadows come reviv- 
ingly wafted to his cheek. Like a flower he feels the change ; 
his bloom is gone from his cheek ; his cheek is wilted and pale. 

From the lofty window of that beggarly room, what is it that 
Pien-e is so intently eying ? There is no street at his feet ; like 
a profound black gulf the open area of the quadrangle gapes 
beneath him. But across it, and at the further end of the steep 
roof of the ancient church, there looms the gray and grand old 
tower ; emblem to Pierre of an unshakable fortitude, which, deep- 
rooted in the heart of the earth, defied all the howls of the air. 

There is a door in Pierre’s room opposite the window of 
Pierre : and now a soft knock is heard in that direction, ac- 
companied by gentle words, asking whether the speaker might 
enter. 

“Yes, always, sweet Isabel”— answered Pierre, rising and 


PIERRE. 


869 


approaching the door ; — “ here : let us drag out the old camp- 
bed for a sofa ; come, sit down now, my sister, and let us fancy 
ourselves anywhere thou wilt.” 

“ Then, my brother, let us fancy ourselves in realms of ever- 
lasting twilight and peace, where no bright sun shall rise, be- 
cause the black night is always its follower. Twilight and 
peace, my brother, twilight and peace !” 

“ It is twilight now, my sister ; and surely, this part of the 
city at least seems still.” 

“ Twilight now, but night soon ; then a brief sun, and then 
another long night. Peace now, but sleep and nothingness 
soon, and then hard work for thee, my brother, till the sweet 
twilight come again.” 

“ Let us light a candle, my sister ; the evening is deepning,” 

“ For what light a candle, dear Pierre ? — Sit close to me, my 
brother.” 

He moved nearer to her, and stole one arm around her ; her 
sweet head leaned against his breast ; each felt the other’s 
throbbing. 

“ Oh, my dear Pierre, why should we always be longing for 
peace, and then be impatient of peace when it comes ? Tell 
me, my brother ! Not two hours ago, thou wert wishing for 
twilight, and now thou wantest a candle to hurry the twilight’s 
last lingering away.” 

But Pierre did not seem to hear her ; his arm embraced her 
tighter ; his whole frame was invisibly trembling. Then sud- 
denly in a low tone of wonderful intensity he breathed : 

“Isabel! Isabel!” 

She caught one ai-m around him, as his was around herself; 
the tremor ran from him to her ; both sat dumb. 

He rose, and paced the room. 

“ Well, Pierre ; thou earnest in here to an-ange thy matters, 
thou saidst. Now what hast thou done ? Come, we will light 
a candle now.” 

Q* 


370 


PIERRE. 


The candle was lighted, and their talk went on. 

“ How about the papers, my brother ? Dost thou find 
every thing right ? Hast thou decided upon what to publish 
first, while thou art writing the new thing thou didst hint of 2” 
“ Look at that chest, my sister. Seest thou not that the 
cords are yet untied 2” 

“ Then thou hast not been into it at all as yet 2” 

“ Not at all, Isabel. In ten days I have lived ten thousand 
years. Forewarned now of the rubbish in that chest, I can 
not summon the heart to open it. Trash ! Dross ! Dirt !” 

“ Pierre I Pierre ! what change is this 2 Didst thou not tell 
me, ere we came hither, that thy chest not only contained 
some silver and gold, but likewise far more precious things, 
readily convertible into silver and gold 2 Ah, Pierre, thou didst 
swear we had naught to fear !” 

“ If I have ever willfully deceived thee, Isabel, may the high 
gods prove Benedict Arnolds to me, and go over to the devils 
to reinforce them against me! But to have ignorantly de- 
ceived myself and thee together, Isabel ; that is a very different 
thing. Oh, what a vile juggler and cheat is man ! Isabel, in 
that chest are things which in the hour of compositiot, I 
thought the very heavens looked in from the windows in aston- 
ishment at their beauty and power. Then, afterward, when 
days cooled me down, and again I took them up and scanned 
them, some underlying suspicions intruded ; but when in the 
open air, I recalled the fresh, unwritten images of the bun- 
glingly written things; then I felt buoyant and triumphant 
again; as if by that act of ideal recalling, I had, forsooth, 
transferred the perfect ideal to the miserable written attempt at 
embodying it. This mood remained. So that afterward how 
I talked to thee about the wonderful thing-s I had done ; the 
gold and the silver mine I had long before sprung for thee and 
for me, who never were to come to want in body or mind. Yet 
all this time, there was the latent suspicion of folly ; but I would 


PIERRE. 


871 


not admit it ; I shut my soul’s door in its face. Yet now, the 
ten thousand uhiversal revealings brand me on the forehead with 
fool ! and like protested notes at the Bankers, all those written 
things of mine, are jaggingly cut through and through with the 
protesting hammer of Truth !— Oh, I am sick, sick, sick !” 

“ Let the arms that never were filled but by thee, lure thee 
back again, Pierre, to the peace of the twilight, even though it 
be of the dimmest !” 

She blew out the light, and made Pierre sit down by her ; 
and their hands were placed in each other’s. 

“ Say, are not thy torments now gone, my brother ?” 

“ But replaced by- — by — by — Oh God, Isabel, unhand me !” 
cried Pierre, starting up. “Ye heavens, that have hidden 
youi’selves in the black hood of the night, I call to ye ! If to fol- 
low Virtue to her uttermost vista, where common souls never 
go ; if by that I take hold on hell, and the uttermost virtue, 
after all, prove but a betraying pander to the monstrousest 
vice, — then close in and crush me, ye stony walls, and into one 
gulf let all things tumble together !” 

“ My brother ! this is some incomprehensible raving,” pealed 
Isabel, throwing both arms around him ; — “ my brother, my 
brother !” 

“ Hark thee to thy fiu'thest inland soul” — thrilled Pierre in 
a steeled and quivering voice. “ Call me brother no more ! 
How knowest thou I am thy brother ? Did thy mother tell 
thee ? Did my father say so to me ? — I am Pierre, and thou 
Isabel, wide brother and sister in the common humanity, — no 
more. For the rest, let the gods look after their own combus- 
tibles. If they have put powder-casks in me— let them look 
to it ! let them look to it ! Ah ! now I catch glimpses, and 
seem to half-see, somehow, that the uttermost ideal of moral 
perfection in man is wide of the mark. The demigods trample 
on trash, and Virtue and Vice are trash ! Isabel, I will write 
such things— I will gospelize the world anew, and show them 


372 


PIERRE. 


deeper secrets than the Apocalypse ! — I will write it, I will 
write it !” 

“Pierre, I am a poor girl, born in the midst of a mys- 
tery, bred in mystery, and still surviving to mystery. So 
mysterious myself, the air and the earth are unutterable to 
me ; no word have I to express them. But these are the cir- 
cumambient mysteries ; thy words, thy thoughts, open other 
wonder-worlds to me, whither by myself I might fear to go. 
But trust to me, Pierre. With thee, with thee, I would boldly 
swim a starless sea, and be buoy to thee, there, when thou 
the strong swimmer shouldst faint. Thou, Pierre, speakest 
of Virtue and Vice ; life-secluded Isabel knows neither the 
one nor the other, but by hearsay. What are they, in their 
real selves, Pierre ? Tell me first what is Virtue : — ^begin !” 

“ If on that point the gods are dumb, shall a pigmy speak ! 
Ask the air 1” 

“ Then Virtue is nothing.” 

“Not that!” 

“Then Vice?” 

“ Look : a nothing is the substance, it casts one shadow one 
way, and another the other way ; and these two shadows cast 
from one nothing ; these, seems to me, are Vhtue and Vice.” 

“ Then why torment thyself so, dearest Pierre ?” 

“ It is the law.” 

“ What ?” 

“ That a nothing should torment a nothing ; for I am a noth- 
ing. It is all a dream — we dream that we dreamed we dream.” 

“ Pierre, when thou just hovered on the verge, thou wert a 
riddle to me ; but now, that thou art deep down in the gulf of 
the soul, — now, when thou wouldst be lunatic to wise men, 
perhaps — now doth poor ignorant Isabel begin to comprehend 
thee. Thy feeling hath long been mine, Pierre. Long lone- 
liness and anguish have opened miracles to me. Yes, it is all 
a dream !” 


PIERRE. 


873 


Swiftly he caught her in his arms : — “ From nothing proceeds 
nothing, Isabel ! How can one sin in a dream ?” 

“ First what is sin, Pierre 

“ Another name for the other name, Isabel.” 

“ For Virtue, Pierre ?” 

“No, for Vice.” I 

“ Let us sit down again, my brother.” 

“ I am Pierre.” 

“ Let us sit down again, Pierre ; sit close ; thy arm !” 

And so, on the third night, when the twilight was gone, and 
no lamp was lit, within the lofty window of that beggarly room, 
sat Pierre and Isabel hushed. 


BOOK XX. 


CHARLIE MILLTHORPE. 


I. 

Pierre had been induced to take chambers at the Apostles’, 
by one of the Apostles themselves, an old acquaintance of his, 
and a native of Saddle Meadows. 

Millthorpe was the son of a very respectable farmer — now 
dead — of m6re than common intelligence, and whose bowed 
shouldei*s and homely garb had still been surmounted by a 
head fit for a Greek philosopher, and features so fine and regu- 
lar that they would have well graced an opulent gentleman. 
The political and social levelings and confoundings of all man- 
ner of human elements in America,, produce many striking in- 
dividual anomalies unknown in other lands. Pierre well re- 
membered old farmer Millthorpe : — the handsome, melancholy, 
ealm-tempered, mute, old man; in whose countenance — re- 
finedly ennobled by nature, and yet coarsely tanned and at- 
tenuated by many a prolonged day’s work in the harvest — 
rusticity and classicalness were strangely united. The delicate 
profile of his face, bespoke the loftiest aristocracy ; his knobbed 
and bony hands resembled a beggar’s. 

Though for several generations the Millthorpes had lived on 
the Glendinning lands, they loosely and unostentatiously traced 
their origin to an emigrating English Knight, who had crossed 
the sea in the time of the elder Charles. But that indigence 


P I E ERE. 


375 


which had prompted the knight to forsake his courtly countiy 
for the howling wilderness, was the only remaining heredit- 
ament left to his bedwindled descendants in the fourth and 
fifth remove. At the time that Pierre first recollected this in- 
teresting man, he had, a year or two previous, abandoned an 
ample farm on account of absolute inability to meet the ma- 
norial rent, and was become the occupant of a very poor and 
contracted little place, on which was a small and half-ruinous 
house. ' There, he then harbored with his wife, — a very gentle 
and retiring person, — his three little daughters, and his only 
son, a lad of Pierre’s own age. The hereditary beauty and 
youthful bloom of this boy ; his sweetness of temper, and 
something of natural refinement as contrasted with the un- 
relieved rudeness, and oftentimes sordidness, of his neighbors ; 
these things had early attracted the sympathetic, spontaneous 
friendliness of Pierre. They were often wont to take their 
boyish rambles together ; and even the severely critical Mrs. 
Glendinning, always fastidiously cautious as to the companions 
of Pierre, had never objected to his intimacy with so pre- 
possessing and handsome a rustic as Charles. 

Boys are often very swiftly acute in forming a judgment on 
character. The lads had not long companioned, ere Pierre 
concluded, that however fine his face, and sweet his temper, 
young Millthorpe was but little vigorous in mind; besides 
possessing a certain constitutional, sophomorean presumption 
and egotism ; which, however, having nothing to feed on but 
his father’s meal and potatoes, and his own essentially timid 
and humane disposition, merely presented an amusing and 
harmless, though incurable, anomolous feature in his character, 
not at all impairing the good-will and companionableness of 
Pierre ; for even in his boyhood, Pierre possessed a sterling 
charity, which could cheerfully overlook all minor blemishes in 
his inferiors, whether in fortune or mind ; content and glad 
to embrace the good whenever presented, or with whatever 


376 


PIERRE. 


conjoined. So, in youth, do we unconsciously act upon those 
pecuhar principles, which in conscious and verbalized maxims 
shall systematically regulate our maturer lives ; — a fact, which 
forcibly illustrates the necessitarian dependence of our lives? 
and their subordination, not to ourselves, but to Fate. 

If the grown man of taste, possess not only some eye to 
detect the picturesque in the natural landscape, so also, has he 
as keen a perception of what may not unfitly be here styled, 
the povertiresque in the social landscape. To such an one, 
not more picturesquely conspicuous is the dismantled thatch 
in a painted cottage of Gainsborough, than the time-tangled 
and want-thinned locks of a beggar, povertiresquely diversify- 
ing those snug little cabinet-pictures of the world, which, ex- 
quisitely varnished and framed, are hung up in the drawing- 
room minds of humane men of taste, and amiable philosophers 
of either the “Compensation,” or “Optimist” school. They 
deny that any misery is in the world, except for the purpose 
of throwing the fine povertiresque element into its general pic- 
ture. Go to ! God hath deposited cash in the Bank subject 
to our gentlemanly order; he hath bounteously blessed the 
world with a summer carpet of green. Begone, Heraclitus ! 
The lamentations of the rain are but to make us our rain- 
bows ! 

Not that in equivocal reference to the povertiresque old far- 
mer Millthorpe, Pierre is here intended to be hinted at. Still, 
man can not wholly escape his surroundings. Unconsciously 
Mrs. Glendinning had always been one of these curious Opti- 
mists ; and in his boyish life Pierre had not wholly escaped 
the maternal contagion. Yet often, in calling at the old farm- 
er’s for Charles of some early winter mornings, and meeting 
the painfully embarrassed, thin, feeble features of Mrs. Mill- 
thorpe, and the sadly inquisitive and hopelessly half-envious 
glances of the three httle girls ; and standing on the threshold, 
Pien-e would catch low, aged, life-weary gi’oans from a recess 


PIERRE. 


377 


out of sight from the door ; then would Pierre have some boy- 
ish inklings of something else than the pure povertiresque in 
poverty : some inklings of what it might be, to he old, and 
poor, and worn, and rheumatic, with shivering death drawing 
nigh, and present life itself but a dull and a chill I some ink- 
lings of what it might be, for him who in youth had vivaciously 
leaped fi’om his bed, impatient to meet the earliest sun, and 
lose no sweet drop of his life, now hating the beams he once so 
dearly loved ; turning round in his bed to the wall to avoid 
them ; and still postponing the foot which should bring him 
back to the dismal day ; when the sun is not gold, but copper ; 
and the sky is not blue, but gray ; and the blood, like Khenish 
wine, too long unquaffed by Death, grows thin and sour in the 
veins. 

Pierre had not forgotten that the augmented penury of the 
Millthorpe’s was, at the time we now retrospectively treat o^ 
gravely imputed by the gossiping frequenters of the Black 
Swan Inn, to certain insinuated moral direlictions of the farmer. 
“ The old man tipped his elbow too often,” once said in Pierre’s 
hearing an old bottle-necked fellow, performing the identical 
same act with a half-emptied glass in his hand. But though 
the form of old Millthorpe was broken, his countenance, how- 
ever sad and thin, betrayed no slightest sign of the sot, either 
past or present! He never was publicly known to frequent the 
inn, and seldom quitted the few acres he cultivated with his 
son. And though, alas, indigent enough, yet was he most 
punctually honest in paying his little debts of shillings and 
pence for his groceries. And though, heaven knows, he had 
plenty of occasion for all the money he could possibly earn, yet 
Pierre remembered, that when, one autumn, a hog was bought 
of him for the servants’ hall at the Mansion, the old man never 
called for his money till the midwinter following ; and then, as 
with trembling fingers he eagerly clutched the silver, he un- 
steadily said, “ I have no use for it now ; it might just as well 


378 


PIERKE. 


have stood over.” It was then, that chancing to overhear this, 
Mrs. Glendinning had looked at the old naan, with a kindly 
and benignantly interested eye to 'povertiresque ; and mur- 
mured, “Ah! the old Enghsh Knight is not yet out of his 
blood. Bravo, old man I” 

One day, in Pierre’s sight, nine silent figures emerged from 
the door of old Millthorpe ; a coffin was put into a neighbor’s 
farm-wagon ; and a procession, sonie thirty feet long, including 
the elongated pole and box of the wagon, wound along Saddle 
Meadows to a hill, where, at last, old Millthorpe was laid down 
in a bed, where the rising sun should affront him no more. 
Oh, softest and daintiest pf Holland linen is the motherly earth I 
There, beneath the sublime tester of the infinite sky, like empe- 
rors and kings, sleep, in grand state, the beggars and paupers 
of earth I I joy that Death is this Democrat ; and hopeless of 
all other real and permanent democracies, still hug the thought, 
that though in life some heads are crowned with gold, and 
some bound round with thorns, yet chisel them how they will, 
head-stones are all alike. 

This somewhat particular account of the father of young 
Millthorpe, will better set forth the less immature condition and 
character of the son, on whom had now descended the main- 
tenance of his mother and sisters. But, though the son of a 
farmer, Charles was peculiaily averse to hard “labor. It was 
not impossible that by resolute hard labor he might eventually 
have succeeded in placing his family in a far more comfortable 
situation than he had ever remembered them. But it was not 
so fated ; the benevolent State had in its great wisdom decreed 
otherwise. 

In the village of Saddle Meadows there was an institution, 
half common-school and half academy, but mainly supported 
by a general ordinance and financial provision of the govern- 
ment. Here, not only were the rudiments of an English edu- 
cation taught, but likewise some touch of belles lettres, and 


PIERRE. 


379 


composition, and that great American bulwark and bore — elo- 
cution. On the high-raisedj stage platform of the Saddle Mead- 
ows Academy, the sons of the most indigent day-laborers were 
wont to drawl out the fiery revolutionary rhetoric of Patrick 
Henry, or gesticulate impetuously through the soft cadences of 
Drake’s “Culprit Fay.” What wonder, then, that of Satur 
days, when there was no elocution and poesy, these boys should 
grow melancholy and disdainful over the heavy, plodding han- 
dles of dung-forks and hoes ? 

At the age of fifteen, the ambition of Charles Millthorpe was 
to be either an orator, or a poet ; at any rate, a great genius of 
one sort or other. He recalled the ancestral Knight, and in- 
dignantly spurned the plow. Detecting in him the first germ 
of this inclination, old Millthorpe had very seriously reasoned 
with his son ; warning him against the evils of his vagrant am- 
bition. Ambition of that sort was either for undoubted genius, 
rich boys, or poor boys, standing entirely alone in the world, 
with no one relying upon them. Charles had better consider 
the case ; his father was old and infii-m ; he could not last very 
long ; he had nothing to leave behind him but his plow and 
his hoe ; his mother was sickly ; his sisters pale and delicate ; 
and finally, life was a fact, and the winters in that part of the 
country exceedingly bitter and long. Seven months out of the 
twelve the pastures bore nothing, and all cattle must be fed in 
the barns. But Charles was a boy; advice often seems the 
most wantonly wasted of all human breath ; man will not take 
wisdom on trust ; may be, it is well ; for such wisdom is worth- 
less ; we must find the true gem for ourselves ; and so we go 
groping and groping for many and many a day. 

Yet was Charles Millthorpe as afiectionate and dutiful a boy 
as ever boasted of his brain, and knew not that he possessed a 
far more excellent and angelical thing in the possession of a 
generous heart. His father died ; to his family he resolved to 
6e a second father, and a careful provider now. But not by. 


880 


PIERRE. 


hard toil of his hand ; hut by gentler practices of his mind 
Already he had read many books — history, poetry, romance 
essays, and all. The manorial book-shelves had often beer 
honored by his visits, and PieiTe had kindly been his librarian 
Not to lengthen the tale, at the age of seventeen, Charles sold 
the horse, the cow, the pig, the plow, the hoe, and almost 
every movable thing on the premises ; and, converting all intc 
cash, departed with his mother and sisters for the city ; chiefly 
basing his expectations of success on some vague representations 
of an apothecary relative there resident. How he and his moth- 
er and sisters battled it out ; how they pined and half-starved 
for a while ; how they took in sewing ; and Charles took in 
copying ; and all but scantily sufificed for a livelihood ; all this 
may be easily imagined. But some mysterious latent good" 
will of Fate toward him, had not only thus far kept Charles 
from the Poor-House, but had really advanced his fortunes in a 
degree. At any rate, that certain harmless presumption and 
innocent egotism which have been previously adverted to as 
sharing in his general character, these had by no means retard- 
ed him ; for it is often to be observed of the shallower men, that 
they are the very last to despond. It is the glory of the blad- 
der that nothing can sink it ; it is the reproach of a box of treas- 
ure, that once overboard it must down. 


II. 

When arrived in the city, and discovering the heartless neg- 
lect of Glen, Pierre, — looking about him for whom to apply 
to in this strait, — bethought him of his old boy-companion 
Charlie, and went out to seek him, and found him at last ; he 
saw before him, a tall, well-grown, but rather thin and pale 
vet strikingly handsome young man of two-and-twenty ; occu- 


PIERRE. 


381 


pying a small dusty law-office on the third floor of the older 
building of the Apostles ; assuming to be doing a very large, 
and hourly increasing business among empty pigeon-holes, and 
directly under the eye of an unopened bottle of ink ; his mother 
and sisters dwelling in a chamber overhead ; and himself, not 
only following the law for a corporeal living, but likewise inter- 
linked with the peculiar secret, theologico-politico-social schemes 
of the masonic order of the seedy-coated Apostles ; and pur- 
suing some crude, transcendental Philosophy, for both a contrib- 
utory means of support, as well as for his complete intellectual 
aliment. 

Pierre was at first somewhat startled by his exceedingly 
frank and familiar manner ; all old manorial deference for 
Pierre was clean gone and departed ; though at the fii-st shock 
of their encounter, Charlie could not possibly have known that 
Pierre was cast off. 

“ Ha, Pierre ! glad to see you, my boy ! Hark ye, next 
month I am to deliver an address before the Omega order of 
the Apostles. The Grand Master, Plinlimmon, will be there. 
I have heard on the best authority that he once said of me — 
‘ That youth has the Primitive Categories in him ; he is des- 
tined to astonish the world.’ Why, lad, I have received propo- 
sitions from the Editors of the Spinozaistto contribute a weekly 
column to their paper, and you know how very few can under- 
stand the Spinozaist ; nothing is admitted there but the Ulti- 
mate Transcendentals. Hark now, in your ear; I think of 
throwing off the Apostolic disguise and coming boldly out; 
Pierre ! I think of stumping the State, and preaching our phi- 
losophy to the masses. — When did you ai-rive in town ?” 

Spite of all his tribulations, Pierre could not restrain a smile 
at this highly diverting reception ; but well knowing the youth, 
he did not conclude from this audacious burst of enthusiastic 
egotism that his heart had at all corroded ; for egotism is one 
thing, and selfishness another. No sooner did Pierre intimate 


382 


PIERRE. 


his condition to him, than immediately, Charlie was all earnest 
and practical kindness ; recommended the Apostles as the best 
possible lodgment for him, — cheap, snug, and convenient to 
most public places ; he ofiered to procure a cart and see him- 
self to the . transport of Pierre’s luggage ; but finally thought it 
best to mount the stairs and show him the vacant rooms. But 
when these at last were decided upon ; and Charlie, all cheer- 
fulness and alacrity, started with Pierre for the hotel, to assist 
him in the removal ; grasping his arm the moment they 
emerged from the great arched door under the tower of the 
Apostles ; he instantly launched into his amusing heroics, and 
continued the strain till the trunks were fairly in sight. 

“ Lord ! my law-business overwhelms me ! I must drive 
away some of my clients ; I must have my exercise, and this 
ever-growing business denies it to me. Besides, I owe some- 
thing to the sublime cause of the general humanity ; I must 
displace some of my briefs for my metaphysical treatises. I can 
not waste all my oil over bonds and mortgages. — You said you 
were mamed, I think ?” ’ 

But without stopping for any reply, he rattled on. “ Well, 
I suppose it is wise after all. It settles, centralizes, and con- 
firms a man, I have heard. — No, I didn’t; it is a random 
thought of my oAvn, that ! — Yes, it makes the world definite to 
him ; it removes his morbid sw&jectiveness, and makes all 
things objective ; nine small children, for instance, may be con- 
sidered objective. Marriage, hey ! — A fine thing, no doubt, no 
doubt : — domestic — pretty — nice, all round. But I owe some- 
thing to the world, my boy ! By marriage, I might contribute 
to the population of men, but not to the census of mind. The 
great men are all bacheloi*s, you know. Their family is the 
universe : I should say the planet Saturn was their elder son ; 
and Plato their uncle. — So you are mamed ?” 

But again, reckless of answers, Charlie went on. “ Pierre, a 
thought, my boy ; — a thought for you ! You do not say it, 


PIEKRE. 


383 


but you hint of a low purse. Now I shall help you to fill it — 
Stump the State on the Kantian Philosophy ! A dollar a 
head, my boy ! Pass round your beaver, and you’ll get it. I 
have every confidence in the penetration and magnanimous- 
ness of the people ! Pierre, hark in your ear ; — ^it’s my opinion 
the world is all wrong. Hist, I say — an entire mistake. So- 
ciety demands an Avatar, — a Curtius, my boy ! to leap into 
the fiery gulf, and by perishing himself, save the whole empire 
of men ! Pierre, I have long renounced the allurements of 
life and fashion. Look at my coat, and see how I spurn 
them ! Pierre ! but, stop, have you ever a shilling ? let’s take 
a cold cut here — ^it’s a cheap place; I go here sometimes. 
Come, let’s in.” 


BOOK XXI. 


PIERE IMMATURELY ATTEMPTS A MATURE WORK. 
TIDIKGS FROM THE MEADOWS. PLINLIMMON. 


I. 

Ws are now to behold Pierre permanently lodged in three 
lofty adjoining chambers of the Apostles. And passing on a 
little further in time, and overlooking the hundred and one 
domestic details, of how their internal arrangements were 
finally put into steady working order ; how poor Delly, now 
giving over the sharper pangs of her grief, found in the lighter 
occupations of a handmaid and familiar companion to Isabel, 
the only practical relief from the memories of her miserable 
past ; how Isabel herself in the otherwise occupied hours of 
Pierre, passed some of her time in mastering the chirographical 
incoherencies of his manuscripts, with a view to eventually 
copying them out in a legible hand for the printer ; or went 
below stairs to the rooms of the Millthorpes, and in the modest 
and amiable society of the three young ladies and their ex- 
cellent mother, found some little solace for the absence of 
Pierre ; or, when his day’s work was done, sat by him in the 
twilight, and played her mystic guitar till Pierre felt chapter 
after chapter born of its wondrous suggestiveness ; but alas ! 
eternally incapable of being translated into words ; for where 
the deepest words end, there music begins with its supersen - 
8U0US and all-confounding intimations. 


PIERRE. 


885 


Disowning now all previous exertions of his mind, and burn- 
ing in scorn even those fine fruits of a care-free fancy, which, 
written at Saddle Meadows in the sweet legendary time of 
Lucy and her love, he had jealously kept from the publishers, 
as too true and good to be published ; renouncing all his fore- 
gone self, Pierre was now engaged in a comprehensive com- 
pacted work, to whose speedy completion two tremendous 
motives unitedly impelled ; — the burning desire to deliver what 
he thought to be new, or at least miserably neglected Truth to 
the world ; and the prospective menace of being absolutely 
penniless, unless by the sale of his book, he could realize 
money. Swayed to universality of thought by the widely-ex- 
plosive mental tendencies of the profound events which had 
lately befallen him, and the unprecedented situation in which 
he now found himself ; and perceiving, by presentiment, that 
most grand productions of the best human intellects ever are 
built round a circle, as atolls {le. the primitive coral islets 
which, raising themselves in the depths of profoundest seas, rise 
funnel-like to the surface, and present there a hoop of white 
rock, which though on the outside everywhere lashed by the 
ocean, yet excludes all tempests from the quiet lagoon within), 
digestively including the whole range of all that can be known 
or dreamed ; Pierre was resolved to give the world a book, 
which the world should hail with surprise and delight. A 
varied scope of reading, little suspected by his friends, and ran- 
domly acquired by a random but lynx-eyed mind, in the course 
of the multifarious, incidental, bibliogi’aphic encounterings of 
almost any civilized young inquirer after Truth ; this poured 
one considerable contributary stream into that bottomless 
spring of original thought which the occasion and time had 
caused to burst out in himself. Now he congratulated himself 
upon all his cursory acquisitions of this sort ; ignorant that in 
reality to a mind bent on producing some thoughtful thing of 
absolute Truth, all mere reading is apt to prove but an obstacle 

R 


386 


PIERRE. 


hard to overcome ; and not an accelerator helpingly pushing 
him along. 

While Pierre was thinking that he was entirely transplanted 
into a new and wonderful element of Beauty and Power, he 
was, in fact, but in one of the stages of the transition. That 
ultimate element once fairly gained, then books no more are 
needed for buoys to our souls ; our own strong limbs support 
us, and we float over all bottomlessnesses with a jeering im- 
punity. He did not see, — or if he did, he could not yet name 
the true cause for it, — that already, in the incipiency of his 
work, the heavy unmalleable element of mere hook-knowledge 
would not congenially weld with the wide fluidness and ethereal 
airiness of spontaneous creative thought. He would climb 
Parnassus with a pile of folios on his back. He did not see, 
that it was nothing at all to him, what other men had written ; 
that though Plato was indeed a transcendently great man in 
himself, yet Plato must not be transcendently great to him 
(Pierre), so long as he (Pierre himself) would also do some- 
thing transcendently great. He did- not see that there is no 
such thing as a standard for the creative spirit ; that no one 
great book must ever be separately regarded, and permitted to 
domineer with its own uniqueness upon the creative min'd ; 
but that all existing great works must be federated in the 
fancy ; and so regarded as a miscellaneous and Pantheistic 
whole ; and then, — without at all dictating to his own mind, 
or unduly biasing it any way, — thus combined, they would 
prove simply an exhilarative and provocative to him. He did 
not see, that even when thus combined, all was but one small 
mite, compared to the latent infiniteness and inexhaustibility 
in himself; that all the great books in the world are but the 
mutilated shadowings-forth of invisible and eternally un- 
emhodied images in the soul ; so that they are but the mirrors, 
distortedly reflecting to us our own things ; and never mind 


PIERRE. 


387 


what the miiTor may he, if we would see the object, we must 
look at the object itself, and not at its reflection. 

But, as to the resolute traveler in Switzerland, the Alps do 
never in one wide and comprehensive sweep, instantaneously 
reveal their full awfulness of amplitude — their overawing ex- 
tent of peak crowded on peak, and spur sloping on spur, and 
chain jammed behind chain, and all their wonderful battalion- 
ings of might ; so hath heaven wisely ordained, that on fii-st 
entering into the Switzerland of his soul, man shall not at once 
perceive its tremendous immensity ; lest illy prepared for such 
an encounter, his spirit should sink and perish in the lower- 
most snows. Only by judicioHis degrees, appointed of God, 
does man come at last to gain his Mont Blanc and take an 
overtopping view of these Alps ; and even then, the tithe is 
not shown ; and far over the invisible Atlantic, the Rocky 
Mountains and the Andes are yet unbeheld. Appalling is the 
soul of a man ! Better might one be pushed off into the ma- 
terial spaces beyond the uttermost orbit of our sun, than once 
feel himself fairly afloat in himself ! 

But not now to consider these ulterior things, Pierre, though 
strangely and very newly alive to many before unregarded 
wonders in the general world ; still, had he not as yet procured 
for himself that enchanter’s wand of the soul, which but touch 
ing the humblest experiences in one’s life, straightway it starts 
up all eyes, in every one of which are endless significancies. 
Not yet had he dropped his angle into the well of his child- 
hood, to find what fish might be there ; for who dreams to find 
fish in a well ? the running stream of the outer world, there 
doubtless swim the golden perch and the pickerel ! Ten mil- 
lion things were as yet uncovered to Pierre. The old mummy 
lies buried in cloth on cloth ; it takes time to unwrap this 
p^gyptian king. Yet now, forsooth, because Pierre began to 
see through the fii-st superficiality of the world, he fondly weens 
he has come to the imlayered substance. But, far as any 


388 


PIERRE. 


geologist has yet gone down into the world, it is found to con- 
sist of nothing but surface stratified on surface. To its axis, 
the world being nothing but superinduced superficies. By 
vast pains we mine into the pyramid ; by horrible gropings we 
come to the central room ; with joy we espy the sarcophagus ; 
but we lift the lid — and no body is there ! — appallingly vacant 
as vast is the soul of a man ! 


R. 

He had been engaged some weeks upon his book — in pur- 
suance of his settled plan avoiding all contact with any of his 
city-connections or friends, even as in his social downfall they 
sedulously avoided seeking him out — nor ever once going or 
sending to the post-office, though it was but a little round the 
corner from where he was, since having dispatched no lettere 
himself, he expected none ; thus isolated from the world, and 
intent upon his literary enterprise, Pierre had passed Some 
weeks, when verbal tidings came to him, of three most mo- 
mentous events. 

First : his mother was dead. 

Second : all Saddle Meadows was become Glen Stanly’s. 

Third : Glen Stanly was believed to be the suitor of Lucy ; 
who, convalescent from an almost mortal illness, was now 
dwelling at her mother’s house in town. 

It was chiefly the first-mentioned of these events which dart- 
ed a sharp natural anguish into Pierre. No letter had come to 
him ; no smallest ring or memorial been sent him ; no slightest 
mention made of him in the will ; and yet it was reported that 
an inconsolable grief had induced his mother’s mortal malady, 
and driven her at length into insanity, which suddenly termi- 


PIJJRIIE. 


889 


nated in death ; and when he fii’st heard of that event, she had 
been cold in the ground for twenty-five days. 

How plainly did all this speak of the equally immense pride 
and giief of his once magnificent mother ; and how agonizedly 
now did it hint of her mortally-wounded love for her only and 
best-beloved Pierre ! In vain he reasoned with himself ; in 
vain remonstrated with himself ; in vain sought to parade all 
his stoic arguments to drive off the onslaught of natural pas- 
sion. Nature prevailed ; and with tears that like acid burned 
and scorched as they flowed, he wept, he raved, at the bitter 
loss of his parent ; whose eyes had been closed by unrelated 
hands that were hired ; but whose heart had been broken, and 
whose very reason been ruined, by the related hands of her 
son. 

For some interval it almost seemed as if his own heart would 
snap ; his own reason go down. Unendurable grief of a man, 
when Death itself gives the stab, and then snatches all avail- 
ments to solacement away. For in the grave is no help, no 
prayer thither may go, no forgiveness thence come ; so that the 
penitent whose sad victim lies in the ground, for that useless 
penitent his doom is eternal, and though it be Christmas-day 
with all Christendom, with him it is Hell-day and an eaten 
liver forever. 

With what marvelous precision and exactitude he now went 
over in his mind all the minutest details of his old joyous life 
with his mother at Saddle Meadows. He began with his own 
toilet in the morning ; then his mild stroll into the fields ; 
then his cheerful return to call his mother in her chamber ; then 
the gay breakfast— and so on, and on, all through the sweet 
day, till mother and son kissed, and with light, loving hearts 
separated to their beds, to prepare themselves for still another 
day of afiectionate delight. This recalling of innocence and 
joy in the hour of remorsefulness and woe 5 this is as heating 
red-hot the pincers that tear us. But in this delirium of his 


390 


PIERRE. 


soul, Pierre could not define where that line was, which sepa- 
rated the natural grief for the loss of a parent from that other 
one which was born of compunction. He strove hard to de- 
fine it, but could not. He tried to cozen himself into believ- 
ing that all his gi’ief was but natural, or if there existed any 
other, that must spring — not from the consciousness of having 
done any possible wrong — but from the pang at what terrible 
cost the more exalted virtues are gained. Nor did he wholly 
fail in this endeavor. At last he dismissed his mother’s mem- 
ory into that same profound vault where hitherto had reposed 
the swooned form of his Lucy. But, as sometimes men are 
coffined in a trance, being thereby mistaken for dead ; so it is 
possible to bury a tranced grief in the soul, erroneously suppos- 
ing that it hath no more vitality of sufifering. Now, immortal 
things only can beget immortality. It would almost seem one 
presumptive argument for the endless duration of the human 
soul, that it is impossible in time and space to kill any com- 
punction arising from having cruelly injured a departed fellow- 
being. 

Ere he finally committed his mother to the profoundest vault 
of his soul, fain would he have drawn one poor alleviation from 
a circumstance, which nevertheless, impartially viewed, seemed 
equally capable either of soothing or intensifying his grief. 
His mother’s will, which without the least mention of his own 
name, bequeathed several legacies to her friends, and concluded 
by leaving all Saddle Meadows and its rent-rolls to Glendinning 
Stanly ; this will bore the date of the day immediately succeed- 
ing his fatal announcement on the landing of the stairs, of his 
assumed nuptials with Isabel. It plausibly pressed upon him, 
that as all the evidences of his mother’s dying unrelentingness 
toward him were negative ; and the only positive evidence — so 
to speak — of even that negativeness, was the will which omit- 
ted all mention of Pierre ; therefore, as that will bore so sig- 
nificant a date, it must needs be most reasonable to conclude. 


PIERRE. 


391 


that it was dictated in the not yet subsided transports of his 
mother’s first indignation. But small consolation was this, 
when he considered the final insanity of his mother ; for whence 
that insanity but from a hate-grief unrelenting, even as his 
father must have become insane from a sin-grief irreparable ? 
Nor did this remarkable double-doom of his parents wholly fail 
to impress his mind with presentiments concerning his own fate 
— his own hereditary liability to madness. Presentiment, I 
say ; but what is a presentiment ? how shall you coherently 
define a presentiment, or how make any thing out of it which 
is at all lucid, unless you say that a presentiment is but a judg- 
ment in disguise ? And if a judgment in disguise, and yet pos- 
sessing this preternaturalness of prophecy, how then shall you 
escape the fateful conclusion, that you are helplessly held in the 
six hands of the Sisters ? For while still dreading your doom? 
you foreknow it. Yet how foreknow and dread in one breath, 
unless with this divine seeming power of prescience, you blend 
the actual slimy powerlessness of defense ? 

That his cousin, Glen Stanly, had been chosen by his mother 
to inherit the domain of the Meadows, was not entirely surpris- 
ing to Pierre. Not only had Glen always been a favorite with 
his mother by reason of his superb person and his congeniality 
of worldly views with herself, but excepting only Pierre, he was 
her nearest surviving blood relation ; and moreover, in his Chris- 
tian name, bore the hereditary syllables, Glen dinning. So that 
if to any one but Pierre the Meadows must descend, Glen, on 
these general grounds, seemed the appropriate heir. 

But it is not natural for a man, never mind who he may be, 
to see a noble patrimony, rightfully his, go over to a soul-alien, 
and that alien once his rival in love, and now his heartless, 
sneering foe ; for so Pierre could not but now argue of Glen,; 
it is not natural for a man to see this without singular emotions 
of discomfort and hate. Nor in Pierre were these feelings at 
all soothed by the report of Glen’s renewed attentions to Lucy. 


PIERBE. 


392 

For there is something in the breast of almost every man, which 
at bottom takes ofiense at the attentions of any other man of- 
fered to a woman, the hope of whose nuptial love he himself 
may have discarded. Fain would a man selfishly appropriate 
all the hearts which have ever in any way confessed themselves 
his. Besides, in Pierre’s case, this resentment was heightened 
by Glen’s previous hypocritical demeanor. For now all his sus- 
picions seemed abundantly verified ; and comparing all dates, 
he inferred that Glen’s visit to Europe had only been undertaken 
to wear ofif the pang of his rejection by Lucy, a rejection tacitly 
consequent upon her not denying her affianced relation to 
Pierre. 

But now, under the mask of profound sjnnpathy — ^in time, 
ripening into love — ^for a most beautiful girl, ruffianly deserted 
by her betrothed, Glen could afford to be entirely open in his new 
suit, without at all exposing his old scar to the world. So at 
least it now seemed to Pierre. Moreover, Glen could now ap- 
proach Lucy under the most favorable possible auspices. He 
could approach her as a deeply sympathizing friend, all wishful 
to assuage her sorrow, but hinting nothing, at present, of any 
selfish matrimonial intent ; by enacting this prudent and un- 
clamorous part, the mere sight of such tranquil, disinterested, 
but indestructible devotedness, could not but suggest in Lucy’s 
mind, very natural comparisons between Glen and Pierre, most 
deplorably abasing to the latter. Then, no woman — as it would 
sometimes seem — no woman is utterly free from the influence 
of a princely social position in her suitor, especially if he be 
handsome and young. And Glen would come to her now the 
master of two immense fortunes, and the heir, by voluntary 
election, no less than by blood propinquity, to the ancestral ban- 
nered hall, and the broad manorial meadows of the Glendin- 
nings. And thus, too, the spirit of Pierre’s own mother would 
seem to press Glen’s suit. Indeed, situated now as he was 
Glen would seem all the finest part of Pierre, without any of 


PIEER E 


393 


Pierre’s shame ; would almost seem Pierre himself — what Pierre 
had once been to Lucy. And as in the case of a man who has 
lost a sweet wife, and who long refuses the least consolation ; 
as this man at last finds a singular solace in the companionship 
of his wife’s sister, who happens to hear a peculiar family re- 
semblance to the dead ; and as he, in the end, proposes mar- 
riage to this sister, merely fi’om the force of such magical asso- 
ciative influences ; so it did not seem wholly out of reason to 
suppose, that the great manly beauty of Glen, possessing a 
strong related similitude to Pierre’s, might raise in Lucy’s heart 
associations, which would lead her at least to seek — if she could 
not find — solace for one now regarded as dead and gone to her 
forever, in the devotedness of another, who would notwithstand- 
ing almost seem as that dead one brought back to life. 

Deep, deep, and still deep and deeper must we go, if we 
would find out the heart of a man ; descending into which is 
as descending a spiral stair in a shaft, without any end, and 
where that endlessness is only concealed by the spiralness of 
the stair, and the blackness of the shaft. 

As Pierre conjured up this phantom of Glen transformed 
into the seeming semblance of himself ; as he figured it ad- 
vancing toward Lucy and raising her hand in devotion ; an in- 
finite quenchless rage and malice possessed him. Many com- 
mingled emotions combined to provoke this storm. But chief 
of all was something strangely akin to that indefinable detesta- 
tion which one feels for any impostor who has dared to assume 
one’s own name and aspect in any equivocal or dishonorable 
affair ; an emotion greatly intensified if this impostor be known 
for a mean villain at bottom, and also, by the freak of nature 
to be almost the personal duplicate of the man whose identity 
he assumes. All these and a host of other distressful and re- 
sentful fancies now ran through the breast of Pierre. All his 
Faith-born, enthusiastic, high-wrought, stoic, and philosophic 
defenses, were now beaten down by this sudden storm of nature 


394 


PIERRE. 


in his soul. For there is no faith, and no stoicism, and no 
philosophy, that a mortal man can possibly evoke, which will 
stand the final test of a real impassioned onset of Life and 
Passion upon him. Then all the fair philosophic or Faith- 
phantoms that he raised from the mist, slide away and disappear 
as ghosts at cock-crow. For Faith and philosophy are air, 
but events are brass. Amidst his gray philosophizings. Life 
breaks upon a man like a morning. 

While this mood was on him, Pierre cursed himself for a 
heartless villain and an idiot fool ; — ^heartless villain, as the mur- 
derer of his mother — ^idiot fool, because he had thrown away 
all his felicity ; because be had himself, as it were, resigned his 
noble birthright to a cunning kinsman for a mess of pottage, 
which now proved all but ashes in his mouth. 

Resolved to hide these new, and — as it latently seemed to him 
— unworthy pangs, from Isabel, as also their cause, he quitted 
his chamber, intending a long vagabond stroll in the suburbs 
of the town, to wear off his sharper grief, ere he should again 
return into her sight. 


III. 

As Pierre, now hurrying from his chamber, was rapidly 
passing through one of the higher brick colonnades connecting 
the ancient building with the modern, there advanced toward 
him from the direction of the latter, a very plain, composed, 
manly figure, with a countenance rather pale if any thing, but 
quite clear and without wrinkle. Though the brow and the 
beard, and the steadiness of the head and settledness of the 
step indicated mature age, yet the blue, bright, but still quies- 
cent eye offered a very striking contrast. In that eye, the gay 
immortal youth Apollo, seemed enshrined ; while on that ivory- 


PIERRE. 


396 


throned brow, old Saturn cross-legged sat. The whole coun- 
tenance of this man, the whole air and look of this man, ex- 
pressed a cheerful content. Cheerful is the adjective, for it 
was the contrary of gloom ; content — perhaps acquiescence — 
is the substantive, for it was not Happiness or Delight. But 
while the personal look and air of this man were thus winning, 
there was still something latently visible in him which repelled. 
That something may best he characterized as non-Benevolence. 
Non-Benevolence seems the best word, for it was neither Malice 
nor Ill-will ; but something passive. To crown all, a certain 
floating atmosphere seemed to invest and go along with this 
man. That atmosphere seems only renderable in words by 
the term Inscrutableness. Though the clothes worn by this 
man were strictly in accordance with the general style of any 
unobtrusive gentleman’s dress, yet his clothes seemed to dis- 
guise this man. One would almost have said, his very face, 
the apparently natural glance of his very eye disguised this 
man. 

Now, as this person deliberately passed by Pierre, he lifted 
his hat, gracefully bowed, smiled gently, and passed on. But 
Pierre was all confusion ; he flushed, looked askance, stam- 
mered with his hand at his hat to return the courtesy of the 
other ; he seemed thoroughly upset by the mere sight of this 
hat-lifting, gracefully bowing, gently-smiling, and most miracu- 
lously self-possessed, non-benevolent man. 

Now who was this man ? This man was Plotinus Plinlim- 
mon. Pierre had read a treatise of his in a stage-coach coming 
to the city, and had heard him often spoken of by Millthorpe 
and others as the Grand Master of a certain mystic Society 
amono- the Apostles. Whence he came, no one could tell. His 
surname was ^^elsh, but he was a Tennesseean by biith. He 
seemed to have no family or blood ties of any sort. He never 
was known to work with his hands 5 never to write with his 
hands (he would not even write a letter) ; he never was known 


396 


P I E B B E . 


to open a book. There were no books in his chamber. Never- 
theless, some day or other he must have read books, but that 
time seemed gone now ; as for the sleazy works that went under 
his name, they were nothing more than his verbal things, taken 
down at random, and bunglingly methodized by his young 
disciples. 

Finding Plinlimmon thus unfurnished either with books or pen 
and paper, and imputing it to something like indigence, a foreign 
scholar, a rich nobleman, who chanced to meet him once, sent 
him a fine supply of stationery, with a very fine set of volumes, 
— Cardan, Epictetus, the Book of Mormon, Abraham Tucker, 
Condorcet and the Zenda-Vesta. But this noble foreign scholar 
calling next day — perhaps in expectation of some compliment 
for his great kindness — started aghast at his own package de- 
posited just without the door of Plinlimmon, and with all fasten- 
ings untouched. 

“ Missent,” said Plotinus Plinlimmon placidly : “ if any thing, 
I looked for some choice Cura9oa from a nobleman like you. I 
should be very happy, my dear Count, to accept a few jugs of 
choice Curaqoa.” 

I thought that the society of which you are the head, ex- 
cluded all things of that sort” — replied the Count. 

“ Dear Count, so they do ; but Mohammed hath his own dis- 
pensation.” 

“ Ah ! I see,” said the noble scholar archly. 

“ I am afraid you do not see, dear Count” — said Plinlimmon ; 
and instantly before the eyes of the Count, the inscrutable at- 
mosphere eddied and eddied roundabout this Plotinus Plinlim- 
mon. 

His chance brushing encounter in the corridor was the first 
time that ever Pien-e had without medium beheld the form or 
the face of Plinlimmon. Very early after taking chambers at 
the Apostles’, he had "been struck by a steady observant blue- 
eyed countenance at one of the loftiest windows of the old gray 


PIERRE. 


397 


tower, which on the opposite side of the quadrangular space, 
rose prominently before his own chamber. Only through two 
panes of glass — his own and the stranger’s — had Pierre hitherto 
beheld that remarkable face of repose, — repose neither divine 
nor human, nor any thing made up of either or both — but a 
repose separate and apart — a repose of a face by itself. One 
adequate look at that face conveyed to most philosophical ob- 
servers a notion of something not before included in their 
scheme of the Universe. 

Now as to the mild sun, glass is no hindrance at all, but 
he transmits his light and life through the glass ; even so through 
Pierre’s panes did the tower face transmit its strange mystery. 

Becoming more and more interested in this face, he had 
questioned Millthorpe concerning it “ Bless yom* soul” — re- 
plied Millthorpe — “ that is Plotinus Plinlimmon ! our Grand 
Master, Plotinus Plinlimmon ! By gad, you must know Plo- 
tinus thoroughly, as I have long done. Come away with me, 
now, and let me introduce you instanter to Plotinus Plinlim- 
mon.” 

But Pierre declined ; and could not help thinking, that though 
in all human probability Plotinus well understood Millthorpe, 
yet Millthorpe could hardly yet have wound himself into Plo- 
tinus ; — though indeed Plotinus — who at times was capable of 
assuming a very oflf-hand, confidential, and simple, sophqmorean 
air — might, for reasons best known to himself, have tacitly pre- 
tended to Millthorpe, that he (Millthorpe) had thoroughly 
wriggled himself into his (Plotinus’) innermost soul. 

A man will be given a book, and when the donor’s back is 
turned, will carelessly drop it in the first corner ; he is not over- 
anxious to be bothered with the book. But now personally 
point out to him the author, and ten to one he goes back to 
the corner, picks up the book, dusts the cover, and very care- 
fully reads that invaluable work. One does not vitally believe 
in a man till one’s own two eyes have beheld him. If then, by 


398 


PIERKE. 


the force of peculiar circumstances, Pierre while in the stage, 
had formerly been drawn into an attentive perusal of the work 
on “ Chronometricals and Horologicals how then was his 
oiiginal interest heightened by catching a subsequent glimpse 
of the author. But at the first reading, not being able — as he 
thought — to master the pivot-idea of the pamphlet; and as 
every incomprehended idea is not only a perplexity but a taunt- 
ing reproach to one’s mind, Pierre had at last ceased studying 
it altogether ; nor consciously troubled himself further about it 
during the remainder of the journey. But still thinking now it 
might possibly have been mechanically retained by him, he 
searched all the pockets of his clothes, but without success. He 
begged Millthorpe to do his best toward procuring him another 
copy ; but it proved impossible to find one. Plotinus himself 
could not furnish it. 

Among other efforts, Pierre in person had accosted a limping 
half-deaf old book-stall man, not very far from the Apostles’. 
“ Have you the ‘ Chronometrics^ my friend ?” forgetting the 
exact title. 

“Very bad, very bad !” said the old man, rubbing his back; 
— “ has had the chronic-rheumatics ever so long ; what’s good 
for ’em ?” 

Perceiving his mistake, Pierre replied that he did not know 
what was the infallible remedy. 

“ Whist ! let me tell ye, then, young ’un,” said the old crip- 
ple, limping close up to him, and putting his mouth in Pierre’s 
ear — “ Never catch ’em ! — now’s the time, while you ’re young : 
— never catch ’em !” 

By-and-by the blue-eyed, mystic-mild face in the upper ^vin- 
dow of the old gray tower began to domineer in a very remark- 
able manner upon Pierre. When in his moods of peculiar 
depression and despair ; when dark thoughts of his miserable 
condition would steal over him ; and black doubts as to the in 
tegrity of his unprecedented course in life would most malig- 


PIERRE. 


399 


nantly suggest themselves ; when a thought of the vanity of his 
deep book would glidingly intrude ; if glancing at his closet- 
window that mystic-mild face met Pierre’s ; under any of these 
influences the effect was surprising, and not to be adequately 
detailed in any possible words. 

Vain ! vain ! vain ! said the face to him. Fool ! fool ! fool ! 
said the face to him. Quit ! quit ! quit ! said the face to him. 
But when he mentally interrogated the face as to why it thrice 
said Vain! Fool I Quit! to him; here there was no response. 
For that face did not respond to any thing. Did I not say be- 
fore that that face was something separate, and apart ; a face 
by itself ? Now, any thing which is thus a thing by itself never 
responds to any other thing. If to affirm, be to expand one’s 
isolated self ; and if to deny, be to contract one’s isolated self ; 
then to respond is a suspension of all isolation. Though this 
face in the tower was so clear and so mild ; though the gay 
youth Apollo was enshrined in that eye, and paternal old Saturn 
sat cross-legged on that ivoiy brow ; yet somehow to Pierre the 
face at last wore a sort of malicious leer to him. But the 
Kantists might say, that this was a subjective sort of leer in 
Pierre. Any way, the face seemed to leer upon Pierre. And 
now it said to him — jlss ! ass / ass I This expression was in- 
sufferable. He procured some muslin for his closet-window ; 
and the face became curtained like any portrait. But this did 
not mend the leer. Pierre knew that still the face leered be- 
hind the muslin. What was most terrible was the idea that by 
some magical means or other the face had got hold of his se- 
cret. “ Ay,” shuddered Pierre, “ the face knows that Isabel is 
not my wife! And that seems the reason it leers.” 

Then would all manner of wild fancyings float through his 
soul, and detached sentences of the “ Chronometrics” would 
vividly recur to him— sentences before but imperfectly com- 
prehended, but now shedding a strange, baleful light upon his 
peculiar condition, and emphatically denouncing it. Again he 


40Q 


PIERRE. 


tried his best to procure the pamphlet, to read it now by the 
commentary of the mystic-mild fac6 ; again he searched 
through the pockets of his clothes for the stage-coach copy, but 
in vain. 

And when — at the critical moment of quitting his chambers 
that morning of the receipt of the fatal tidings — the face itself 
— the man himself — this inscrutable Plotinus Plinlimmon him- 
self — did visibly brush by him in the brick corridor, and all the 
trepidation he had ever before felt at the mild-mystic aspect in 
the tower window, now redoubled upon him, so that, as before 
said, he flushed, looked askance, and stammered with his salut- 
ing hand to his hat ; — then anew did there bm*n in him the 
desire of procuring the pamphlet. “ Cui-sed fate that I should 
have lost it” — he cried ; — “ more cursed, that when I did have 
it, and did read it, I was such a ninny as not to comprehend ; 
and now it is all too late !” 

Yet — to anticipate here — when years after, an old Jew 
Clothesman rummaged over a surtout of Pierre’s — ^which by 
some means had come into his hands — ^his lynx-like fingers 
happened to feel something foreign between the cloth and the 
heavy quilted bombazine, lining. He ripped open the skirt, 
and found several old pamphlet pages, soft and worn almost 
to tissue, but still legible enough to reveal the title — “ Chrono- 
metricals and Horologicals.” Pierre must have ignorantly 
thrust it into his pocket, in the stage, and it had worked 
through a rent there, and worked its way clean down into the 
skirt, and there helped pad the padding. So that all the time 
he was hunting for this pamphlet, he himself was wearing the 
pamphlet. When he brushed past Plinlimmon in the brick 
comdor, and felt that renewed intense longing for the pam- 
phlet, then his right hand was not two inches from the pam- 
phlet. 

Possibly this curious circumstance may in some sort illus- 
trate his self-supposed non-understanding of the pamphlet, as 


PIERRE. 


401 


first read by him in the stage. Could he likewise have carried 
about with him in his mind the thorough understanding of the 
book, and yet not be aware that he so understood it ? I think 
that — regarded in one light — ^the final career of Pierre will 
seem to show, that he did understand it. And here it may be 
randomly suggested, by way of bagatelle, whether some things 
that men think they do not know, are not for all that thoroughly 
comprehended by them ; and yet, so to speak, though contained 
in themselves, are kept a secret from themselves ? The idea of 
Death seems such a thing. 


^ ^ 

V .; r'- •■ . ■ ■ ■ ' ' ' 

V %>: BOOK xxil 

THE FLOWER-CURTAIN LIFTED FROM BEFORE A TROPICAL 
AUTHOR, WITH SOME REMARKS ON THE TRANSCEN- 
'■ DENTAL FLESH-BRUSH PHILOSOPHY. 


I- ' 

Some days passed after the fatal tidings from the Meadows, 
and at length, somewhat mastering his emotions, Pierre again 
sits down in his chamber ; for grieve how he will, yet work he 
must. And now day succeeds day, and week follows week, and 
Pierre still sits in his chamber. The long rows of cooled brick- 
kilns around him scarce know of the change ; but from the 
fair fields of his great-great-great-grandfather’s manor. Summer 
hath flown like a swallow-guest ; the perfidious wight. Autumn, 
hath peeped in at the groves of the maple, and under pretense 
of clothing them in rich russet and gold, hath stript them at 
last of the slightest* rag, and then ran away laughing ; pro- 
phetic icicles depend from the arbors round about the old ma- 
norial mansion — now locked up and abandoned ; and the little, 
round, marble table in the viny summer-house where, of July 
mornings, he had sat chatting and drinking negus with his gay 
mother, is now spread with a shivering napkin of frost ; sleety 
varnish hath encrusted that once gay mother’s grave, prepar- 
ing k for its final cerements of wrapping snow upon snow ; wild 
howl the winds in the woods : it is Winter. Sweet Summer is 
done ; and Autumn is done ; but the book, like the bitter win- 
ter, is yet to be finished. 


PIERRE. 


403 


That season’s wheat Ls long garnered, Pierre ; that season’s 
ripe apples and grapes are in ; no crop, no plant, no fi-uit is 
out ; the whole harvest is done. Oh, woe to that belated win- 
ter-overtaken plant, which the summer could not bring to ma- 
turity ! The drifting winter snows shall whelm it. Think, 
Pierre, doth not thy plant belong to some other and tropical 
clime ? Though transplanted to northern Maine, the orange- 
tree of the Floridas will put forth leaves in that parsimonious 
summer, and show some few tokens of fruitage ; yet ISTovember 
will find no golden globes thereon; and the passionate old 
lumber-man, December, shall peel the whole tree, wrench it ofl* 
at the gi’ound, and toss it for a fagot to some lime-kiln. Ah, 
Pierre, Pierre, make haste ! make haste ! force thy fruitage, 
lest the winter force thee. 

Watch yon little toddler, how long it is learning to stand 
by itself! Fii-st it shrieks and implores, and will not try to 
stand at all, unless both father and mother uphold it ; then a 
little more bold, it must, at least, feel one parental hand, else 
again the cry and the tremble ; long time is it ere by degrees 
this child comes to stand without any support. But, by-and- 
by, grown up to man’s estate, it shall leave the very mother 
that bore it, and the father that begot it, and cross the seas, 
perhaps, or settle in far Oregon lands. There now, do you see 
the soul. In its germ on all sides it is closely folded by the world, 
as the husk folds the tenderest fruit ; then it is born from the 
world-husk, but still now outwardly cling-s to it ; — still clamors 
for the support of its mother the world, and its father the Deity. 
But it shall yet learn to stand independent, though not without 
many a bitter wail, and many a miserable fall. 

That hour of the life of a man when first the help of human- 
ity fails him, and he learns that in his obscurity and indigence 
humanity holds him a dog and no man : that hour is a hard 
one, but not the hardest. There is still another hour which 
follows, when he learns that in his infinite comparative minute- 


404 


PIERRE. 


ness and abjectness, the gods do likewise despise him, and own 
him not of their clan. Divinity and humanity then are equally 
willing that he should starve in the street for all that either 
will do for him. Now cruel father and mother have both let 
go his hand, and the little soul-toddler, now you shall hear 
his shriek and his wail, and often his fall. 

When at Saddle Meadows, Pierre had wavered and trem- 
bled in those first wretched hours ensuing upon the receipt of 
Isabel’s letter ; then humanity had let go the hand of Pierre, 
and therefore his cry ; but when at last inured to this, Pierre 
was seated at his book, willing that humanity should desert 
him, so long as he thought he felt a far higher support ; then, 
ere long, he began to feel the utter loss of that other support, 
too; ay, even the paternal gods themselves did now desert 
Pierre ; the toddler was toddling entirely alone, and not with- 
out shrieks. 

If man must wrestle, perhaps it is well that it should be on 
the nakedest possible plain. 

The three chambers of Pierre at the Apostles’ were connect- 
ing ones. The first — ^having a little retreat where Delly slept — 
was used for the more exacting domestic purposes : here also 
their meals were taken ; the second was the chamber of Isabel ; 
the third was the closet of Pierre. In the first — the dining 
room, as they called it — there was a stove which boiled the 
water for their cofiee and tea, and where Delly concocted their 
light repasts. This was their only fire ; for, warned again and 
again to economize to the uttermost, Pierre did not dare to pur- 
chase any additional warmth. But by prudent management, a 
very little warmth may go a great way. In the present case, 
it went some forty feet or more. A horizontal pipe, after el- 
bovnng away from above the stove in the dining-room, pierced 
the partition wall, and passing straight through Isabel’s cham- 
ber, entered the closet of Pierre at one corner, and then abrupt- 
ly disappeared into the wall, where all further caloric — ^if any — 


PIERRE. 


406 


went up through the chimney into the air, to help wahn the 
December sun. Now, the great distance of Pierre’s calorical 
stream from its fountain, sadly impaired it, and weakened it. It 
hardly had the flavor of heat. It would have had but very in- 
considerable influence in raising the depressed spirits of the 
most mercurial thermometer ; certainly it was not very elevat- 
ing to the spirits of Pierre. Besides, this calorical stream, 
small as it was, did not flow through the room, but only entered 
it, to elbow right out of it, as some coquettish maidens enter 
the heart ; moreover, it was in the furthest corner from the only 
place where, with a judicious view to the light, Pierre’s desk- 
barrels and board could advantageously stand. Often, Isabel 
insisted upon his having a separate stove to himself ; but Pierre 
would not listen to such a thing. Then Isabel would offer her 
own room to him ; saying it was of no indispensable use to her 
by day ; she could easily spend her time in the dining-room ; 
but Pierre ivould not listen to such a thing ; he would not de- 
prive her of the comfort of a continually accessible privacy ; 
besides, he was now used to his own room, and must sit by that 
particular window there, and no other. Then Isabel would in- 
sist upon keeping her connecting door open while Pierre was 
employed at his desk, that so the heat of her room might bodily 
go into his ; but PieiTe would not listen to such a thing : be- 
cause he must be religiously locked up while at work ; outer 
love and hate must alike be excluded then. In vain Isabel 
said she would make not the slightest noise, and muffle the 
point of the very needle she used. All in vain. Pierre was 
inflexible here. 

Yes, he was resolved to battle it out in his own solitary 
closet ; though a strange, transcendental conceit of one of the 
more erratic and non-conforming Apostles, — who was also at 
this time engaged upon a profound work above stairs, and who 
denied himself his full sufficiency of food, in order to insure 
an abundant fire ; — the strange conceit of this Apostle, I say, 


406 


PIERRE. 


— accidentally communicated to Pierre, — that, through all the 
kingdoms of Nature, caloric was the great universal producer 
and vivify er, and could not be prudently excluded from the 
spot where great books were in the act of creation ; and there- 
fore, he (the Apostle) for one, was resolved to plant his head 
in a hot-bed of stove-warmed air, and so force his brain to 
germinate and blossom, and bud, and put forth the eventual, 
crowning, victorious flower ; — though indeed this conceit rather 
staggered Pierre — ^for in truth, there was no small smack of 
plausible analogy in it — ^yet one thought of his purse would 
wholly expel the unwelcome intrusion, and reinforce his own 
previous resolve. 

However lofty and magnificent the movements of the stars ; 
whatever celestial melodies they may thereby beget ; yet the 
astronomers assure us that they are the most rigidly method- 
ical of all the things that exist. No old housewife goes her 
daily domestic round with one millionth part the precision of 
the great planet Jupiter in his stated and unalterable revolu- 
tions. He has found his orbit, and stays in it ; he has timed 
himself, and adheres to his periods. So, in some degree with 
Pierre, now revolving in the troubled orbit of his book. 

Pierre rose moderately early ; and the better to inure him- 
self to the permanent chill of his room, and to defy and beard 
to its face, the cruelest cold of the outer air ; he would — be- 
hind the curtain — throw down the upper sash of his window ; 
and on a square of old painted canvas, formerly wrapping 
some bale of goods in the neighborhood, treat his limbs, of 
those early December mornings, to a copious ablution, in water 
thickened with incipient ice. Nor, in this stoic performance, 
was he at all without company, — not present, but adjoiningly 
sympathetic; for scarce an Apostle in all those scores and 
scores of chambers, but undeviatingly took his daily December 
bath. Pierre had only to peep out of his pane and glance 
round the multi-windowed, inclosing walls of the quadrangle, 


PI EERE. 


407 


to catch plentiful half-glimpses, all round him, of many a lean, 
philosophical nudity, refreshing his meager bones with crash- 
towel and cold water. “ Quick be the play,” was their motto : 
“ Lively our elbows, and nimble all our tenuities.” Oh, the 
dismal echoings of the raspings of flesh-brushes, perverted to 
the filing and polishing of the merest ribs ! Oh, the shudder- 
some splashings of pails of ice-water over feverish heads, not 
unfamiliar with aches ! Oh, the rheumatical cracklings of 
rusted joints, in that defied air of December ! for every thick- 
frosted sash was down,, and every lean nudity courted the 
zephyr ! 

Among all the innate, hyena-like repellants to the reception 
of any set form of a spiritually-minded and pure archetypical 
faith, there is nothing so potent in its skeptical tendencies, as 
that inevitable perverse ridiculousness, which so often bestreaks 
some of the essentially finest and noblest aspirations of those 
men, who disgusted with the common conventional quackeries, 
strive, in their clogged terrestrial humanities, after some im- 
perfectly discerned, but heavenly ideals : ideals, not only im- 
perfectly discerned in themselves, but the path to them so 
little traceable, that no two minds will entirely agree upon it. 

Hardly a new-light Apostle, but who, in superaddition to 
his revolutionary scheme for the minds and philosophies of 
men, entertains some insane, heterodoxical notions about the 
economy of his body. His soul, introduced by the gentle- 
manly gods, into the supernal society, — practically rejects that 
most sensible maxim of men of the world, who chancing to 
gain the friendship of any gi-eat character, never make that the 
ground of boring him with the supplemental acquaintance of 
their next friend, who perhaps, is some miserable ninny. Love 
me, love my dog, is only an adage for the old country-women 
who affectionately kiss their cows. The gods love the soul of 
a man ; often, they will frankly accost it ; but they abominate 
his body ; and will forever cut it dead, both here and hereafter. 


408 


PIERRE. 


So, if thou wouldst go to the gods, leave thy dog of a body 
behind thee. And most impotently thou strivest with thy 
purifying cold baths, and thy diligent scrubbings with flesh- 
brushes, to prepare it as a meet offering for their altar. Nor 
shall all thy Pythagorean and Shellian dietings on apple- 
parings, dried prunes, and Crumbs of oat-meal cracker, ever fit 
thy body for heaven. Feed all things with food convenient for 
them, — that is, if the food be procurable. The food of thy 
soul is light and space ; feed it then on light and space. But 
the food of thy body is champagne and oystern ; feed it then 
on champagne and oysters ; and so shall it merit a joyful 
resurrection, if there is any to be. Say, wouldst thou rise with 
a lantern jaw and a spavined knee ? Rise with brawn on thee, 
and a most royal corporation before thee ; so shalt thou in that 
day claim respectful attention. Know this : that while many 
a consumptive dietarian has but produced the merest literaiy 
flatulencies to the world ; convivial authom have alike given 
utterance to the sublimest wisdom, and created the least gross 
and most ethereal forms. And for men of demonstrative 
muscle and action, consider that right royal epitaph which 
Cyrus the Great caused to be engraved on his tomb — “ I could 
drink a gi’eat deal of wine, and it did me a great deal of good.” 
Ah, foolish ! to think that by starving thy body, thou shalt 
fatten thy soul ! Is yonder ox fatted because yonder lean fox 
starves in the winter wood ? And prate not of despising thy 
body, while still thou flourisheth thy flesh-brush ! The finest 
houses are most cared for within ; the outer walls are freely 
left to the dust and the soot. Put venison in thee, and so wit 
shall come Out of thee. It is one thing in the mill, but another 
in the sack. 

Now it was the continual, quadrangular example of those 
forlorn fellows, the Apostles, who, in this period of his half- 
developments and transitions, had deluded Pierre into the Flesh- 
Brush Philosophy, and had almost tempted him into the Apple- 


PIERRE. 


409 


Parings Dialectics. For all the long wards, corridors, and mul- 
titudinous chambers of the Apostles’ were scattered with the 
stems of apples, the stones of prunes, and the shells of pea-nuts. 
They went about huskily muttering the Kantian Categories 
'through teeth and lips dry and dusty as any miller’s, with the 
•.rumhs of Graham crackers. A tumbler of cold water was the 
itmost welcome to their reception rooms ; at the grand sup- 
posed Sanhedrim presided over by one of the deputies of Plo- 
tinus Plinlimmon, a huge jug of Adam’s Ale, and a bushel- 
basket of Graham crackers were the only convivials. Con- 
tinually bits of cheese were dropping from their pockets, and 
old shiny apple parchments were ignorantly exhibited every 
time they drew out a manuscript to read you. Some were 
curious in the vintages of waters ; and in three glass decanters 
set before you, Fairmount, Croton, and Cochituate ; they held 
that Croton was the most potent, Fairmount a gentle tonic, and 
Cochituate the mildest and least inebriating of all. Take some 
more of the Croton, my dear sir ! Be brisk with the Fairmount ! 
Why stops that Cochituate ? So on their philosophical tables 
went round their Port, their Sherry, and their Claret. 

Some, further advanced, rejected mere water in the bath, as 
altogether too coarse an element ; and so, took to the Vapor- 
baths, and steamed their lean ribs every morning. The smoke 
which issued from their heads, and overspread their pages, was 
prefigured in the mists that issued from under their door-sills 
and out of their windows. Some could not sit down of a morn- 
ing until after fii'st applying the Vapor-bath outside, and then 
thoroughly rinsing out their interiors with five cups of cold 
Croton. They were as faithfully replenished fire-buckets ; and 
could they, standing in one cordon, have consecutively pumped 
themselves into each other, then the great fire of 1835 had 
been far less wide-spread and disastrous. 

Ah 1 ye poor lean ones ! ye wretched Soakites and Vapor- 
ites ! have not your niggardly fortunes enough rinsed ye out, 

S 


410 


PIERRE 


and wizened ye, but ye must still be dragging the hose-pipe, 
and throwing still more cold Croton on yourselves and the 
world ? Ah ! attach the screw of your hose-pipe to some fine 
old butt of Madeira ! pump us some sparkling wine into the 
world ! see, see, already, from all eternity, two-thirds of it have 
lain helplessly soaking ! 


II. 

With cheek rather pale, then, and lips rather blue, Pierre 
sits down to his plank. 

But is Pierre packed in the mail for St. Petersburg this 
morning ? Over his boots are his moccasins ; over his ordinary 
coat is his surtout ; and over that, a cloak of Isabel’s. Now he 
is squared to his plank ; and at his hint, the affectionate Isabel 
gently pushes his chair closer to it, for he is so muffled, he can 
hardly move of himself. Now Delly comes in with bricks hot 
fi:om the stove ; and now Isabel and she with devoted solicitude 
pack away these comforting stones in the folds of an old blue 
cloak, a military garment of the grandfather of Pierre, and ten- 
derly arrange it both over and under his feet ; but putting the 
warm flagging beneath. Then Delly brings still another hot 
brick to put under his inkstand, to prevent the ink fi’om thick- 
ening. Then Isabel drags the camp-bedstead nearer to him, on 
which are the two or three books he may possibly have occa- 
sion to refer to that day, with a biscuit or two, and some water, 
and a clean towel, and a basin. Then she leans against the 
plank by the elbow of Pierre, a crook-ended stick. Is PieiTe a 
shepherd, or a bishop, or a cripple ? No, but he has in effect, 
reduced himself to the miserable condition of the last. With 
the crook-ended cane, Pierre — unable to rise without sadly 
imp?llHiig’ his manifold intrenchments, and admitting the cold 


PIERRE. 


411 


air into their innermost nooks, — Pierre, if in his solitude, he 
should chance to need any thing beyond the reach of his arm, 
then the crook-ended cane drags it to his immediate vicinity. 

Pierre glances slowly all round him ; every thing seems to 
be right ; he looks up with a grateful, melancholy satisfaction 
at Isabel ; a tear gathera in her eye ; but she conceals it from 
him by coming very close to him, stooping over, and kissing 
his brow. ’Tis her lips that leave the warm moisture there ; 
not her tears, she says. 

“ I suppose I must go now, Pierre. Now don’t, don’t be so 
long to-day. I will call thee at half-past four. Thou shalt not 
strain thine eyes in the twilight.” 

“We will see about that,” says Pierre, with an unobserved 
attempt at a very sad pun. “ Come, thou must go. Leave 
me.” 

And there he is left. 

Pierre is young ; heaven gave him the divinest, freshest 
form of a man ; put light into his eye, and fire into his blood, 
and brawn into his arm, and a joyous, jubilant, overflowing, 
upbubbling, universal life in him everywhere. Now look 
around in that most miserable room, and at that most mis- 
erable of all the pursuits of a man, and say if here be the 
place, and this be the trade, that God intended him for. A 
rickety chair, two hollow barrels, a plank, paper, pens, and in- 
fernally black ink, four leprously dingy white walls, no carpet, 
a cup of water, and a dry biscuit or two. Oh, I hear the leap 
of the Texan Camanche, as at this moment he goes crashing 
-like a wild deer through the green underbrush ; I hear his glo- 
rious whoop of savage and untamable health ; and then I look 
in at Pierre. If physical, practical unreason make the savage, 
which is he ? Civilization, Philosophy, Ideal Virtue ! behold 
your victim ! 


412 


PIERRE. 


III. 

Some hours pass. Let us peep over the shoulder of Pierre, 
and see what it is he is writing there, in that most melancholy 
closet. Here, topping the reeking pile by his side, is the last 
sheet from his hand, the frenzied ink not yet entirely dry. It 
is much to our purpose ; for in this sheet, he seems to have 
directly plagiarized from his own experiences, to fill out the 
mood of his apparent author-hero, Vi via, who thus soliloquizes : 
“ A deep-down, unutterable mournfulness is in me. Now I 
drop all humorous or indifierent disguises, and all philosophical 
pretensions. I own myself a brother of the clod, a child of the 
Primeval Gloom. Hopelessness and despair are over me, as 
pall on pall. Away, ye chattering apes of a sophomorean 
Spinoza and Plato, who once didst all but delude me that the 
night was day, and pain only a tickle. Explain this darkness, 
exorcise this devil, ye can not. Tell me not, thou inconceivable 
coxcomb of a Goethe, that the universe can not spare thee and 
thy immortality, so long as — ^like a hired waiter — thou makest 
thyself ‘ generally useful.’ Already the universe gets on with- 
out thee, and could still spare a million more of the same iden- 
tical kidney. Corporations have no souls, and thy Pantheism, 
what was that ? Thou wert but the pretensious, heartless part 
of a man. Lo I I hold thee in this hand, and thou art crushed 
in it like an egg from which the meat hath been sucked.” 

Here is a slip from the floor. 

“ Whence flow the panegyrical melodies that precede the 
march of these heroes ? From what but from a sounding brass 
and a tinkling cymbal !” 

And here is a second. 

“ Cast thy eye in there on Vivia ; tell me why those four 
limbs should be clapt in a dismal jail — day out, day in — week 
out, week in — month out, month in — and himself the voluntary 


PIERRE. 


413 


jailer ! Is this the end of philosophy ? This the larger, and 
spiritual life ? This your boasted empyrean ? Is it for this that 
a man should grow wise, and leave off his most excellent and 
calumniated folly ?” 

And here is a third. 

“ Cast thy eye in there on Vivia ; he, who in the pursuit of 
the highest health of virtue and truth, shows but a pallid cheek ! 
Weigh his heart in thy hand, oh, thou gold-laced, virtuoso 
Goethe ! and tell me whether it does not exceed thy standard 
weight !” 

And here is a fourth. 

“ Oh God, that man should spoil and rust on the stalk, and 
be wilted and threshed ere the harvest hath come ! And oh 
God, that men that call themselves men should still insist on a 
laugh ! I hate the world, and could trample all lungs of man- 
kind as grapes, and heel them out of their breath, to think of 
the woe and the cant, — to think of the Truth and the Lie ! 
Oh ! blessed be the twenty-first day of December, and cursed 
be the twenty-first day of June !” 

From these random slips, it would seem, that Pierre is quite 
conscious of much that is so anomalously hard and bitter in 
his lot, of much that is so black and terrific in his soul. Yet 
that knowing his fatal condition does not one whit enable him 
to change or better his condition. Conclusive proof that he 
has no power over his condition. For in tremendous extremi- 
ties human souls are like drowning men; well enough they 
know they are in peril ; well enough they know the causes of 
that peril ; — nevertheless, the sea is the sea, and these drown- 
ing men do drown. 


414 


PIERRE. 


lY. 

From eight o’clock in the morning till half-past four in the 
evening, Pierre sits there in his room ; — eight hours and a half! 

From throbbing neck-bands, and swinging belly-bands of 
gay-hearted horses, the sleigh-bells chimingly jingle ; — but Pierre 
sits there in his room; Thanksgiving comes, with its glad 
thanks, and crisp turkeys ; — but Pierre sits there in his room ; 
soft through the snows, on tinted Indian haoccasin. Merry Christ- 
mas comes stealing ; — but Pierre sits there in his room ; it is 
New-Year’s, and like a great flagon, the vast city overbrims at 
all curb-stones, wharves, and piers, with bubbling jubilations ; — 
but Pierre sits there in his room : — Nor jingling sleigh-bells at 
throbbing neck-band, or swinging belly-band ; nor glad thanks, 
and crisp turkeys of thanksgiving ; nor tinted Indian moccasin 
of Merry Christmas softly stealing through the snows; nor 
New-Year’s curb-stones, wharves, and piei’s, over-brimming with 
bubbling jubilations : — Nor jingling sleigh-bells, nor glad 
Thanksgiving, nor Merry Christmas, nor jubilating New Year’s : 
— Nor Bell, Thank, Christ, Year; — none of these are for 
Pierre. In the midst of the merriments of the mutations of 
Time, Pierre hath ringed himself in with the grief of Eternity. 
Pierre is a peak inflexible in the heart of Time, as the isle-peak, 
Piko, stands unassaultable in the midst of waves. 

He will not be called to ; he will not be stirred. Sometimes 
the intent ear of Isabel in the next room, overhears the alter- 
nate silence, and then the long lonely scratch of his pen. It is, 
as if she heard the busy claw of some midnight mole in the 
ground. Sometimes, she hears a low cough, and sometimes 
the scrape of his crook-handled cane. 

Here surely is a wonderful stillness of eight houi-s and a 
half, repeated day after day. In the heart of such silence, 
surely something is at work. Is it creation, or destruction ? 


PIERRE. 


416 


Builds Pierre the noble world of a new book ? or does the Pale 
Haggardness unbuild the lungs and the life in him ? — ^Unut- 
terable, that a man should be thus ! 

When in the meridian flush of the day, we recall the black 
apex of night ; then night seems impossible ; this sun can never 
go down. Oh that the memory of the uttermost gloom as an 
already tasted thing to the dregs, should be no security against 
its return. One may be passibly well one day, but the next, he 
may sup at black broth with Pluto. 

Is there then all this work to one book, which shall be read 
in a very few hours ; and, far more frequently, utterly skipped 
in one second ; and which, in the end, whatever it be, must 
undoubtedly go to the worms ? 

Not so ; that which now absorbs the time and the life of 
Pierre, is not the book, but the primitive elementalizing of the 
strange stufi’, which in the act of attempting that book, have 
upheaved and upgushed in his soul. Two books are being 
writ ; of which the world shall only see one, and that the bun- 
gled one. The larger book, and the infinitely better, is for 
Pierre’s own private shelf. That it is, whose unfathomable 
cravings drink his blood ; the other only demands his ink. But 
circumstances have so decreed, that the one can not be com- 
posed on the paper, but only as the other is writ down in his 
soul. And the one of the soul is elephantinely sluggish, and 
will not budge at a breath. Thus Pierre is fastened on by two 
leeches ; — ^how then can the life of Pierre last ? Lo ! he is fit- 
ting himself for the highest life, by thinning his blood and col- 
lapsing his heart. He is learning how to live, by rehearsing 
the part of death. 

Who shall tell all the thoughts and feelings of Pierre in 
that desolate and shivering room, when at last the idea ob- 
truded, that the wiser and the profounder he should grow, the 
more and the more he lessened the chances for bread ; that 
could he now hurl his deep book out of the window, and fall tc 


416 


PIE ERE. 


on some shallow nothing of a novel, composable in a month at 
the longest, then could he reasonably hope for both appre- 
ciation and cash. But the devouring profundities, now opened 
up in him, consume all his vigor ; would he, he could not now 
be entertainingly and profitably shallow in some pellucid and 
merry romance. Now he sees, that with every accession of the 
personal divine to him, some great land-slide of the general 
surrounding divineness slips from him, and falls crashing 
away. Said I not that the gods, as well as mankind, had 
unhanded themselves from this Pierre ? So now in him you 
behold the baby toddler I spoke of ; forced now to stand and 
toddle alone. 

Now and then he turns to the camp-bed, and wetting his 
towel in the basin, presses it against his brow. Now he leans 
back in his chair, as if to give up ; but again bends over and 
plods. 

Twilight draws on, the summons of Isabel is heard from the 
door ; the poor, frozen, blue-lipped, soul-shivering traveler for 
St. Petersburg is unpacked ; and for a moment stands tod- 
dling on the floor. Then his hat, and his cane, and out he sal- 
hes for fresh air. A most comfortless staggering of a stroll ! 
People gaze at him passing, as at some imprudent sick man, 
willfully burst from his bed. If an acquaintance is met, and 
would say a pleasant newsmonger’s word in his ear, that ac- 
quaintance turns from him, afironted at his hard aspect of icy 
discourtesy. “ Bad-hearted,” mutters the man, and goes on. 

He comes back to his chambers, and sits down at the neat 
table of Belly ; and Isabel soothingly eyes him, and presses 
him to eat and be strong. But his is the famishing which 
loathes all food. He can not eat but by force. He has assas- 
sinated the natural day ; how then can he eat with an appe- 
tite ? If he lays him down, he can not sleep ; he has waked 
the infinite wakefulness in him ; then how can he slumber ? 
Still his book, like a vast lumbering planet, revolves in his ach- 


PIEREE. 


417 


ing head. He can not command the thing out of its orbit ; 
fain would he behead himself, to gain one night’s repose. At 
last the heavy hours move on ; and sheer exhaustion overtakes 
him, and he lies still — ^not asleep as children and day-laborers 
sleep — but he lies still from his throbbings, and for that interval 
holdingly sheaths the beak of the vulture in his hand, and lets 
it not enter his heart. 

Morning comes ; again the dropt sash, the icy water, the 
flesh-brush, the breakfast, the hot bricks, the ink, the pen, the 
from-eight-o’clock-to-half-past-four, and the whole general in- 
clusive hell of the same departed day. 

Ah ! shivering thus day after day in his wrappers and 
cloaks, is this the warm lad that once sung to the world of the 
Tropical Summer ? 


■ns 





BOOK XXIIL 

“A LETTER FOR PIERRE; ISABEL. ' ARRIVAL OF LUCY’S 
EASEL AND TRUNKS AT THE APOSTLES’. 


... .. . L ■ - ' ^ -- '■/ 

-J '-J - 

If a frontier man be seized by wild Indians, and carried far 
and deep into the wilderness, and there held a captive, with no 
slightest probability of eventual deliverance ; then the wisest 
thing for that man is to exclude from his memory by every 
possible method, the least images of those beloved objects now 
forever reft from him. For tbe more delicious they were to 
him in the now departed possession, so much the more agon- 
izing shall they be in the present recalling. And though a 
strong man may sometimes succeed in strangling such tor- 
menting memories ; yet, if in the beginning permitted to en- 
croach upon him unchecked, the same man shall, in the end, 
become as an idiot. With a continent and an ocean between 
him and his wife — thus sundered from her, by whatever imper- 
ative cause, for a term of long years ; — the husband, if passion- 
ately devoted to her, and by nature broodingly sensitive of soul, 
is wise to forget her till he embrace her again ; — is wise never 
to remember her if he hear of her death. And though such 
complete suicidal forgettings prove practically impossible, yet is 
it the shallow and ostentatious afiections alone which are bust- 
ling in the oflSces of obituarian memories. The love deep as 
death — what mean those five words, but that such love can not 


PIERRE. 


419 


live, and be continually remembering that the loved one is no 
more ? If it be thus then in cases where entire unremorseful- 
ness as regards the beloved absent objects is presumed, how 
much more intolerable, when the knowledge of their hopeless 
wretchedness occurs, attended by the visitations of before latent 
upbraidings in the rememberer as having been any way — 
even unwillingly — the producers of their sufferings. There 
seems no other sane recourse for some moody organizations on 
whom such things, under such circumstances intrude, but right 
and left to flee them, whatever betide. 

If little or nothing hitherto has been said of Lucy Tartan in 
reference to the condition of Pierre after his departure from the 
Meadows, it has only been because her image did not willingly 
occupy his soul. He had striven his utmost to banish it thence ; 
and only once — on receiving the tidings of Glen’s renewed at- 
tentions — did he remit the intensity of those strivings, or rather 
feel them, as impotent in him in that hour of his manifold 
and overwhelming prostration. ^ 

Hot that the pale form of Lucy, swooning on her snow-white 
bed ; not that the inexpressible anguish of the shriek — “ My 
heart ! my heart !” would not now at times force themselves 
upon him, and cause his whole being to thrill with a nameless 
horror and terror. But the very thrillingness of the phantom 
made him to shun it, with all remaining might of his spirit. 

Hor were there wanting still other, and far more wonderful, 
though but dimly conscious influences in the breast of Pierre, 
to meet as repellants the imploring form. Not to speak of his 
being devoured by the all-exacting theme of his book, there 
were sinister preoccupations in him of a still subtler and more 
fearful sort, of which some inklings have already been given. 

It was while seated solitary in his room one morning ; his 
flagging faculties seeking a momentary respite ; his head side- 
ways turned toward the naked floor, following the seams in it, 
which, as wires, led straight from where he sat to the connect- 


420 


PIERRE. 


ing door, and disappeared beneath it into the chamber of Isa- 
bel ; that he started at a tap at that very door, followed by the 
wonted, low, sweet voice, — 

“ Pierre ! a letter for thee — dost thou hear ? a letter, — may 
I come in ?” 

At once he felt a dart of surprise and apprehension ; for he 
was precisely in that general condition with respect to the outer 
world, that he could not reasonably look for any tidings but 
disastrous, or at least, unwelcome ones. He assented ; and Isa- 
bel entered, holding out the billet in her hand. 

“ ’Tis from some lady, Pierre ; who can it be ? — not thy moth- 
er though, of that I am certain ; — the expression of her face, as 
seen by me, not at all answering to the expression of this 
handwriting here.” 

“ My mother ? from my mother ?” muttered Pierre, in wild 
vacancy — “ no ! no ! it can scarce be from her. — Oh, she writes 
no more, even in her own private tablets now ! Death hath 
stolen the last leaf, and rubbed all out, to scribble his own inef- 
faceable hie jacet there !” 

“ Pierre !” cried Isabel, in affright. 

“ Give it me !” he shouted, vehemently, extending his hand. 
“ Forgive me, sweet, sweet Isabel, I have wandered in my mind ; 
this book makes me mad. There ; I have it now” — ^in a tone 
of indifference — “ now, leave me again. It is from some pretty 
aunt, or cousin, I suppose,” carelessly balancing the letter in his 
hand. 

Isabel quitted the room ; the moment the door closed upon 
her, Pierre eagerly split open the letter, and read : — 


PIERRE. 


421 


II. 

“ This morning I vowed it, my own dearest, dearest Pierre 
I feel stronger to-day ; for to-day I have still more thought of 
thine own superhuman, angelical strength ; which so, has a 
very little been transferred to me. Oh, Pierre, Pierre, with 
what words shall I write thee now ; — now, when still knowing 
nothing, yet something of thy secret I, as a seer, suspect. 
Grief, — deep, unspeakable grief, hath made me this seer. 1 
could murder myself, Pierre, when I think of my previous 
blindness ; but that only came from my swoon. It was hor- 
rible and most murdersome ; but now I see thou wert right in 
being so instantaneous with me, and in never afterward writing 
to me, Pierre ; yes, now I see it, and adore thee the more. 

“ Ah ! thou too noble and angelical Pierre, now I feel that a 
being like thee, can possibly have no love as other men love ; 
but thou lovest as angels do ; not for thyself, but wholly for 
others. But still are we one, Pierre ; thou art sacrificing thy- 
self, and I hasten to re-tie myself to thee, that so I may catch 
thy fire, and all the ardent multitudinous arms of our common 
flames may embrace. I will ask of thee nothing, Pierre ; thou 
shalt tell me no secret. Very right wert thou, Pierre, when, in 
that ride to the hills, thou wouldst not swear the fond, foolish 
oath I demanded. Very right, very right ; now I see it. 

“ If then I solemnly vow, never to seek from thee any slightest 
thing which thou wouldst not willingly have me know ; if ever 
I, in all outward actions, shall recognize, just as thou dost, the 
peculiar position of that mysterious, and ever-sacred being j 
then, may I not come and live with thee ? I will be no encum- 
brance to thee. I know just where thou art, and how thou art 
living ; and only just there, Pierre, and only just so, is any fur- 
ther life endurable, or possible for me. She will never know— 
for thus far I am sure thou thyself hast never disclosed it to her 


422 


PIERKE. 


what I once was to thee. Let it seem, as though I were some 
nun-like cousin iinmovably vowed to dwell with thee in thy 
strange exile. Show not to me, — never show more any visible 
conscious token of love. I will never to thee. Our mortal lives, 
oh, my heavenly Pierre, shall henceforth be one mute wooing 
of each other ; with no declaration ; no bridal ; till we meet in 
the pure realms of God’s final blessedness for us ; — ^till we 
meet where the ever-intemipting and ever-marring world can 
not and shall not come ; where all thy hidden, glorious unsel- 
fishness shall be gloriously revealed in the full splendor of that 
heavenly light ; where, no more forced to these cruelest dis- 
guises, she, she too shall assume her own glorious place, nor 
take it hard, but rather feel the more blessed, when, there, thy 
sweet heart, shall be openly and unreservedly mine. Pierre, 
Pierre, my Pierre ! — only this thought, this hope, this sublime 
faith now supports me. Well was it, that the swoon, in which 
thou didst leave me, that long eternity ago — well was it, dear 
Pierre, that though I came out of it to stare and grope, yet it 
was only to stare and grope, and then I swooned again, and then 
groped again, and then again swooned. But all this was vacancy ; 
little I clutched ; nothing I knew ; ’twas less than a dream, my 
Pierre, I had no conscious thought of thee, love ; but felt an 
utter blank, a vacancy ; — for wert thou not then utterly gone 
from me ? and what could there then be left of poor Lucy ? — 
But now, this long, long swoon is past ; I come out again into 
life and light ; but how could I come out, how could I any way 
be^ my Pierre, if not in thee ? So the moment I came out of the 
long, long swoon, straightway came to me the immortal faith in 
thee, which though it could offer no one slightest possible argu- 
ment of mere sense in thy behalf, yet was it only the more 
mysteriously imperative for that, my Pierre. Know then, dearest 
Pierre, that with every most glaring earthly reason to disbelieve 
in thy love ; I do yet wholly give myself up to the unshakable 
belief in it. For I feel, that always is love love, and can not 


PIERRE. 


428 


know change, Pierre ; I feel that heaven hath called me to a 
wonderful office toward thee. By throwing me into that long, 
long swoon, — during which, Martha tells me, I hardly ate alto- 
gether, three ordinary meals, — by that, heaven, I feel now, was 
preparing me for the superhuman office I speak of ; was wholly 
estranging me from this earth, even while I yet lingered in it ; 
was fitting me for a celestial mission in terrestrial elements. 
Oh, give to me of thine own dear strength ! I am but a poor 
weak girl, dear Pierre ; one that didst once love thee but too 
fondly, and with earthly frailty. But now I shall be wafted far 
upward from that ; shall soar up to thee, where thou sittest in 
thin§ own calm, sublime heaven of heroism. 

“ Oh seek not to dissuade me, Pierre. Wouldst thou slay 
me, and slay me a million times more ? and never have done 
with murdering me ? I must come ! I must come ! God him- 
self can not stay me, for it is He that commands me. — I know 
all that will follow my flight to thee ; — my amazed mother, my 
enraged brothers, the whole taunting and despising world. — 
But thou art my mother and my brothers, and all the world, 
and all heaven, and all the univei*se to me — thou art my Pierre. 
One only being does this soul in me serve — and that is thee, 
Pierre. — So I am coming to thee, Pierre, and quickly ; — to- 
morrow it shall be, and never more will I quit thee, Pierre. 
Speak thou immediately to her about me ; thou shaft know 
best what to say. Is there not some connection between our 
families, Pierre? I have heard my mother sometimes trace 
such a thing out, — some indirect cousinship. If thou approvest, 
then, thou shaft say to her, I am thy cousin, Pien-e thy re- 
solved and immovable nun-like cousin ; vowed to dwell with 
thee forever ; to serve thee and her, to guard thee and her 
without end. Prepare some little corner for me somewhere ; 
but let it be very near. Ere I come, I shall send a few little 
things, — the tools I shall work by, Pierre, and so contribute to 
the welfare of all. Look for me then. I am coming! I am 


424 


PIERRE. 


coming, my Pierre ; for a deep, deep voice assures me, that all 
noble as thou ai*t, Pierre, some terrible jeopardy involves thee, 
which my continual presence only can drive away. I am 
coming ! I am coming !” 

Lucy. 


III. 

When surrounded by the base and mercenary crew, man, 
too long wonted to eye his race with a suspicious disdain, sud- 
denly is brushed by some angelical plume of humanity, and the 
human accents of superhuman love, and the human eyes of 
superhuman beauty and glory, suddenly burst on his being ; 
then how wonderful and fearful the shock ! It is as if the sky- 
cope were rent, and from the black valley of Jehoshaphat, he 
caught upper glimpses of the seraphim in the visible act of 
adoring. 

He held the artless, angelical letter in his unrealizing hand ; 
he started, and gazed round his room, and out at the window, 
commanding the bare, desolate, all-forbidding quadrangle, and 
then asked himself whether this was the place that an angel 
should choose for its visit to earth. Then he felt a vast, out- 
swelling triumphantness, that the girl whose rare merits his in- 
tuitive soul had once so clearly and passionately discerned, 
should indeed, in this most tremendous of all trials, have ac- 
quitted hei-self with such infinite majesty. Then again, he sunk 
utterly down from her, as in a bottomless gulf, and ran shud- 
dering through hideous galleries of despair, in pureuit of some 
vague, white shape, and lo ! two unfathomable dark eyes met 
his, and Isabel stood mutely and mournfully, yet all-ravishingly 
before him. 

He started up from his plank ; cast off his manifold wrap- 
pings, and crossed the floor to remove himself from the spot, 


PIERRE. 


425 


where such sweet, such sublime, such terrific revelations had 
been made him. 

Then a timid little rap was heard at the door. 

“ Pierre, Pierre ; now that thou art risen, may I not come in 
— just for a moment, Pien’e.” 

“ Come in, Isabel.” 

She was approaching him in her wonted most strange and 
sweetly mournful manner, when he retreated a step from her, 
and held out his arm, not seemingly to invite, but rather as if 
to warn. 

She looked fixedly in his face, and stood rooted. 

“ Isabel, another is coming to me. Thou dost not speak, 
Isabel. She is coming to dwell with us so long as we live, Isa- 
bel. Wilt thou not speak 

The girl still stood rooted ; the eyes, which she had first fixed 
on him, still remained wide-openly riveted. 

“ Wilt thou not speak, Isabel ?” said Pierre, terrified at her 
fi’ozen, immovable aspect, yet too terrified to manifest his own 
• terror to her ; and still coming slowly near her. She slightly 
raised one arm, as if to grasp some support ; then turned her 
head slowly sideways toward the door by which she had en- 
tered ; then her dry lips slowly parted — “ My bed ; lay me ; 
lay me !” 

The verbal efibrt broke her stifiening enchantment of frost ; 
her thawed form sloped sidelong into the air ; but Pierre caught 
her, and bore her into her own chamber, and laid her there on 
the bed. 

“ Fan me ; fan me !” 

He fanned the fainting flame of her life; by-and-by she 
turned slowly toward him. 

“ Oh ! that feminine word from thy mouth, dear Pierre : — 
that she^ that she P' 

Pierre sat silent, fanning her. 

“ Oh, I want none in the world but thee, my brother— but 


426 


PIERRE. 


thee, but thee ! and, oh God ! am I not enough for thee ? 
Bare earth with my brother were all heaven for me ; hut all 
my life, all my full soul, contents not my brother.” 

Pierre spoke not ; he but listened ; a terrible, burning curi- 
osity was in him, that made him as heartless. But still all that 
she had said thus far was ambiguous. 

“ Had I known — had I but known it before ! Oh bitterly 
cruel to reveal it now. That she ! That she I" 

She raised herself suddenly, and almost fiercely confronted 
him. 

“ Either thou hast told thy secret, or she is not worthy the 
commonest love of man ! Speak Pierre, — which ?” 

“ The secret is still a secret, Isabel.” 

“Then is she worthless, Pierre, whoever she be — ^foolishly, 
madly fond ! — Doth not the world know me for thy wife ? — 
She shall not come ! ’Twere a foul blot on thee and me. She 
shall not come ! One look from me shall murder her, PieiTe !” 

“ This is madness, Isabel. Look : now reason with me. Did 
I not before opening the letter, say to thee, that doubtless it 
was fi’om some pretty young aunt or cousin ?” 

“ Speak quick ! — a cousin ?” 

“ A cousin, Isabel.” 

“ Yet, yet, that is not wholly out of the degree, I have heard. 
Tell me more, and quicker ! more ! more !” 

“ A very strange cousin, Isabel ; almost a nun in her no- 
tions. Hearing of our mysterious exile, she, without knowing 
the cause, hath yet as mysteriously vowed herself ours — not so 
much mine, Isabel, as ours, ours — to serve us ; and by some 
sweet heavenly fancying, to guide us and guard us here.” 

“ Then, possibly, it may be all very well, Pierre, my brother 
— my brother — I can say that now ?” 

“ Any, — all words are thine, Isabel ; words and worlds with 
all their containings, shall be slaves to thee, Isabel.” 

She looked eagerly and inquiringly at him ; then dropped 


PIERRE. 


427 


her eyes, and touched his hand ; then gazed again. “ Speak 
so more to me, Pierre ! Thou art my brother ; art thou not 
my brother ? — But tell me now more of — her ; it is all new- 
ness, and utter strangeness to me, Pierre.” 

“ I have said, my sweetest sister, that she has this wild, nun- 
like notion in her. She is willful in it ; in this letter she vows 
she must and will come, and nothing on earth shall stay her. 
Do not have any sisterly jealousy, then, my sister. Thou wilt 
find her a most gentle, unobtrusive, ministering girl, Isabel. 
She will never name the not-to-be-named things to thee ; nor 
hint of them ; because she knows them not. Still, without 
knowing the secret, she yet hath the vague, unspecializing sen- 
sation of the secret — ^the mystical presentiment, somehow, of the 
secret. And her divineness hath drowned all womanly curiosity 
in her ; so that she desires not, in any way, to verify the pre- 
sentiment ; content with the vague presentiment only ; for in 
that, she thinks, the heavenly summons to come to us, lies ; — 
even there, in that, Isabel. Dost thou now comprehend me 

“ I comprehend nothing, Pierre ; there is nothing these eyes 
have ever looked upon, Pierre, that this soul comprehended. 
Ever, as now, do I go all a-grope amid the wide mysteriousness 
of things. Yes, she shall come ; it is only one mystery the 
more. Doth she talk in her sleep, Pierre ? Would it be well, 
if I slept with her, my brother ?” 

“ On thy account ; wishful for thy sake ; to leave thee in- 
commoded; and — and — not knowing precisely how things 
really are ; — she probably anticipates and desires otherwise, my 
sister.” 

She gazed steadfastly at his outwardly firm, but not interior- 
ly unfaltering aspect ; and then dropped her glance in silence. 

“Yes, she shall come, my brother; she shall come. But it 
weaves its thread into the general riddle, my brother. — Hath 
she that which they call the memory, Pierre ; the memory ? 
Hath she that ?” 


428 


PI EREE. 


“ We all have the memory, my sister.” 

“ Not all ! not all ! — poor Bell hath but very httle. Pierre ! 
I have seen her in some dream. She is fair-haired — blue eyes 
— she is not quite so tall as I, yet a very little slighter.” 

Pierre started. “ Thou hast seen Lucy Tartan, at Saddle 
Meadows?” 

“ Is Lucy Tartan the name ? — Perhaps, perhaps ; — but also, 
in the dream, Pierre ; she came, with her blue eyes turned be- 
seechingly on me ; she seemed as if pei’suading me from thee ; 
— methought she was then more than thy cousin ; — methought 
she was that good angel, which some say, hovers over every 
human soul ; and methought — oh, methought that I was thy 
other, — ^thy other angel, Pien-e. Look : see these eyes,— this 
hair — nay, this cheek ; — all dark, dark, dark, — and she — the 
blue-eyed — the fair-haired — oh, once the red-cheeked !” 

She tossed her ebon tresses over her ; she fixed her ebon 
eyes on him. 

“ Say, Pierre ; doth not a funerealness invest me ? Was 
ever hearse so plumed ? — Oh, God ! that I had been born with 
blue eyes, and fair hair ! Those make the livery of heaven ! 
Heard ye ever yet of a good angel with dark eyes, Pierre ? — 
no, no, no — all blue, blue, blue — ^heaven’s own blue — the clear, 
vivid, unspeakable blue, which we see in June skies, when all 
clouds are swept by. — But the good angel shall come to thee, 
Pierre. Then both will be close by thee, my brother ; and 
thou mayest perhaps elect, — elect ! — She shall come ; she shall 
come. — When is it to be, dear Pierre ?” 

“ To-morrow, Isabel. So it is here written.” 

She fixed her eye on the crumpled billet in his hand. “ It 
were vile to ask, but not wrong to suppose the asking.— Pierre, 
— ^no, I need not say it, — wouldst thou ?” 

“ No ; I would not let thee read it, my sister ; I would not ; 
because I have no right to — ^no right — ^no right ; — ^that is it ; 
no : I have no right. I will burn it this instant, Isabel.” 


PIERRE. 


429 


He stepped from her into the adjoining room ; threw the 
billet into the stove, and watching its last ashes, returned to 
Isabel. 

She looked with endless intimations upon him. 

“ It is burnt, but not consumed ; it is gone, but not lost. 
Through stove, pipe, and flue, it hath mounted in flame, and 
gone as a scroll to heaven ! It shall appear again, my brother. 
— Woe is me — woe, woe! — woe is me, oh, woe! Do noo 
speak to me, Pierre ; leave me now. She shall come. The 
Bad angel shall tend the Good ; she shall dwell with us, Pierre. 
Mistrust me not ; her considerateness to me, shall be outdone 
by mine to her. — Let me be alone now, my brother.” 


lY. 

Though by the unexpected petition to enter his privacy — a 
petition he could scarce ever deny to Isabel, since she so re- 
ligiously abstained from preferring it, unless for some very 
reasonable cause, PieiTe, in the midst of those conflicting, 
secondaiy emotions, immediately following the first wonderful 
efiect of Lucy’s strange letter, had been forced to put on, 
toward Isabel, some air of assurance and understanding con- 
cerning its contents ; yet at bottom, he was still a prey to all 
manner of devouring mysteries. 

Soon, now, as he left the chamber of Isabel, these mys- 
teriousnesses re-mastered him completely ; and as he mechan- 
ically sat down in the dining-room chair, gently ofiered him by 

Delly ^for the silent girl saw that some strangeness that sought 

stillness was in him Pierre’s mind was revolving how it was 
possible, or any way conceivable, that Lucy should have been 
inspired with such seemingly wonderful presentiments of some- 
thing assumed, or disguising, or non-substantirl, somewhere 


430 


PI E BRE. 


and somehow, in his present most singular apparent position in 
the eye of world. The wild words of Isabel yet rang in his 
ears. It were an outrage upon all womanhood to imagine that 
Lucy, however yet devoted to him in her hidden heart, should 
be willing to come to him, so long as she supposed, with the 
rest of the world, that Pierre was an ordinarily married man. 
But how — what possible reason — what possible intimatioi 
could she have had to suspect the contrary, or to suspect am 
thing unsound ? For neither at this present time, nor at any 
subsequent period, did Pierre, or could Pierre, possibly imagine 
that in her marvelous presentiments of Love she had any 
definite conceit of the precise nature of the secret which so 
unrevealingly and enchantedly wrapt him. But a peculiar 
thought passingly recurred to him here. 

Within his social recollections there was a very remarkable 
case of a youth, who, while all but affianced to a beautiful girl 
— one returning his own throbbings vvdth incipient passion — be- 
came somehow casually and momentarily betrayed into an im- 
prudent manifested tenderness toward a second lady ; or else, 
that second lady’s deeply-concerned friends caused it to be made 
known to the poor youth, that such committal tenderness to- 
ward her he had displayed, nor had it failed to exert its natu- 
ral effect upon her ; certain it is, this second lady drooped and 
drooped, and came nigh to dying, all the while raving of the 
cruel infidelity of her supposed lover ; so that those agonizing 
appeals, from so really lovely a girl, that seemed dying of grief 
for him, at last so moved the youth, that — morbidly disregard- 
ful of the fact, that inasmuch as two ladies claimed him, the 
prior lady had the best title to his hand — his conscience in- 
sanely upbraided him concerning the second lady ; he thought 
that eternal woe would surely overtake him both here and here- 
after if he did not renounce his first love — ^tenlble as the effort 
would be both to him and her — and wed with the second lady ; 
which he accordingly did ; while, through his whole subsequent 


PIERKE. 


431 


life, delicacy and honor toward his thus wedded wife, forbade 
that by explaining to his first love how it was with him in this 
matter, he should tranquilize her heart ; and, therefore, in her 
complete ignorance, she believed that he was willfully and 
heartlessly false to her ; and so came to a lunatic’s death on his 
account. 

This strange story of real life, Pierre knew to be also familiar 
to Lucy ; for they had several times conversed upon it ; and 
the first love of the demented youth had been a school-mate of 
Lucy’s, and Lucy had counted upon standing up with her as 
bridemaid. Now, the passing idea was self-suggested to Pierre, 
whether into Lucy’s mind some such conceit as this, concerning 
himself and Isabel, might not possibly have stolen. But then 
again such a supposition proved wholly untenable in the end ; 
for it did by no means suffice for a satisfactory solution of the 
absolute motive of the extraordinary proposed step of Lucy ; 
nor indeed by any ordinary law of propriety, did it at all seem 
to justify that step. Therefore, he know not what to think ; 
hardly what to dream. Wonders, nay, downright miracles and 
no less were sung about Love ; but here was the absolute mir 
acle itself — the out-acted miracle. For infallibly certain he in 
wardly felt, that whatever her strange conceit ; whatever he 
enigmatical delusion ; whatever her most secret and inexplica 
ble motive ; still Lucy in her own virgin heart remained trans- 
parently immaculate, without shadow of flaw or vein. Never- 
theless, what inconceivable conduct this was in her, which she 
in her letter so passionately proposed ! Altogether, it amazed 
him ; it confounded him. 

Now, that vague, fearful feeling stole into him, that, rail as all 
atheists will, there is a mysterious, inscrutable divineness in the 
^orld — a God — a Being positively present everywhere ; — nay, 
He is now in this room 5 the air did part when I here sat down. 
I displaced the Spirit then — condensed it a little off fi’om this 


432 


PIERRE. 


spot. He looked apprehensively around him ; he felt oveijoyed 
at the sight of the humanness of Delly. 

While he was thus plunged into this mysteriousness, a knock 
was heard at the door. 

Delly hesitatingly rose — “Shall I let any one in, sir? — I 
think it is Mr. Millthorpe’s knock.” 

“ Go and see — go arid see” — said Pierre, vacantly. 

The moment the door was opened, Millthorpe — for it was he 
— catching a glimpse of Pierre’s seated form, brushed past 
Delly, and loudly entered the room. 

“ Ha, ha ! well, my boy, how comes on the Inferno ? That 
is it you are writing ; one is apt to look black while writing In- 
fernoes ; you always loved Dante. My lad ! I have finished 
ten metaphysical treatises ; argued five cases before the court ; 
attended all our socie^’s meetings ; accompanied our great 
Professor, Monsieur Volvoon, the lecturer, through his circuit in 
the philosophical saloons, sharing all the honors of his illus- 
trious triumph ; and by the way, let me tell you, Volvoon se- 
cretly gives me even more credit than is my due ; for ’pon my 
soul, I did not help write more than one half, at most, of his 
Lectures ; edited — anonymously, though — a learned, scientific 
work on ‘ The Precise Cause of the Modifications in the Undu- 
latoiy Motion in Waves,’ a posthumous work of a poor fellow — 
fine lad he was, too — a friend of mine. Yes, here I have been 
doing all this, while you still are hammering away at that 
one poor plaguy Inferno ! Oh, there’s a secret in dispatching 
these things ; patience ! patience ! you will yet learn the secret. 
Time ! time ! I can’t teach it to you, my boy, but Time can : 
I wish I could, but I can’t.” 

There was another knock at the door. 

“ Oh !” cried Millthorpe, suddenly turning round to it, “ I 
forgot, my boy. I came to tell you that there is a porter, with 
some queer things, inquiring for you. I happened to meet him 
down stairs in the comdors, and I told him to follow me up — I 


PIERRE. 


433 


would show him the road ; here he is ; let him in, let him in, 
good Delly, my girl.” 

Thus /ar, the rattlings of Millthorpe, if producing any effect 
at all, had but stunned the averted Pierre. But now he started 
to his feet. A man with his hat on, stood in the door, holding 
an easel before him. 

“ Is this Mr. Glendinning’s room, gentlemen ?” 

“ Oh, come in, come in,” cried Millthorpe, “all right.” 

“ Oh ! is that you^ sir ? well, well, then ;” and the man set 
down the easel. 

“ Well, my boy,” exclaimed Millthorpe to Pierre ; “ you are 
in the Inferno dream yet. Look ; that’s what people call an 
easel^ my boy. An eanel^ an easel — not a weasel ; you look at 
it as though you thought it a weasel. Come ; wake up, wake 
up ! You ordered it, I suppose, and here it is. Going to paint 
and illustrate the Inferno, as you go along, I suppose. Well, 
my friends tell me it is a great pity my own things aint illus- 
trated. But I can’t afford it. There now is that Hymn to the 
Niger, which I threw into a pigeon-hole, a year or two ago — 
that would be fine for illustrations.” 

“ Is it for Mr. Glendinning you inquire ?” said Pierre now, in 
a slow, icy tone, to the porter. 

“ Mr. Glendinning, sir ; all right, aint it ?” 

“ Perfectly,” said Pierre mechanically, and casting another 
strange, rapt, bewildered glance at the easel. “ But something 
seems strangely wanting here. Ay, now I see, I see it Vil- 
lain !— the vines! Thou hast torn the green heart-strings! 
Thou hast but left the cold skeleton of the sweet arbor wherein 
she once nestled ! Thou besotted, heartless hind and fiend, 
dost thou so much as dream in thy shriveled liver of the eter- 
nal mischief thou hast done ? Restore thou the green vines ! 
untrample them, thou accursed!— Oh my God, my Gpd, 
trampled vines pounded and crushed in all fibers, how can 
they live over again, even though they be replanted ! Curse 


434 


PIERRE. 


thee, thou !— Nay, nay,” he added moodily— “ I was but wan- 
dering to myself.” Then rapidly and mockingly— “ Pardon, 
pardon Importer ; I most humbly crave thy most haughty par- 
don.” Then imperiously — “ Come, stir thyself, man ; thou hast 
more below : bring all up.” 

As the astounded porter turned, he whispered to Millthorpe — 
“Is he safe? — shall I bring ’em?” 

“ Oh certainly,” smiled Millthorpe : “ I’ll look out for him ; 
he’s never really dangerous when I’m present ; there, go !” 

Two trunks now followed, with “ L. T.” blurredly marked 
upon the ends. 

“ Is that all, my man ?” said Pierre, as the trunks were being 
put down before him ; “ well, how much ?” — that moment his 
eyes first caught the blurred letters. 

“ Prepaid, sir ; but no objection to more.” 

Pierre stood mute and unmindful, still fixedly eying the 
blurred letters ; his body contorted, and one side drooping, as 
though that moment half-way down-stricken with a paralysis, 
and yet unconscious of the stroke. 

His two companions momentarily stood motionless in those 
respective attitudes, in which they had first caught sight of the 
remarkable change that had come over him. But, as if asham- 
ed of having been thus aflfected, Millthorpe summoning a loud, 
merry voice, advanced toward Pierre, and, tapping his shoulder, 
cried, “Wake up, wake up, my boy! — He says he is prepaid, 
but no objection to more.” 

“ Prepaid ; — ^what’s that ? Go, go, and jabber to apes !” 

“ A curious young gentleman, is he not ?” said Millthorpe 
lightly to the porter ; — “ Look you, my boy. I’ll repeat : — He 
says he’s prepaid, but no objection to more.” 

“ Ah ? — take that then,” said Pierre, vacantly putting some- 
thing into the porter’s hand. 

“ And what shall I do with this, sir ?” said the porter, staring. 

“ Drink a health ; but not mine ; that were mockeiy 1” 


PIERRE. 


436 


“ Witli a key, sir ? This is a key you gave me.” 

“ Ah ! — well, you at least shall not have the thing that un- 
locks me. Give me the key, and take this.” 

“ Ay, ay ! — ^here’s the chink ! Thank ’ee sir, thank ’ee. 
This’ll drink. I aint called a porter for nothing ; Stout’s the 
word ; 2151 is my number ; any jobs, call on me.” 

“ Do you ever cart a coffin, my man ?” said Pierre. 

“ ’Pon my soul !” cried Millthorpe, gayly laughing, “ if you 
aint wi’iting an Inferno, then — but never mind. Porter ! this 
gentleman is under medical treatment at present. You had 
better — ab’ — ^you understand — ’squatulate, porter ! There, my 
boy, he is gone ; I understand how to manage these fellows ; 
there’s a trick in it, my boy — an off-handed sort of what d’ye 
call it ? — ^you understand — the trick 1 the trick ! — the whole 
world’s a trick. Know the trick of it, all’s right ; don’t know, 
all’s wrong. Ha ! ha !” 

“The porter is gone then?” said Pierre, calmly. “Well, 
Mr. Millthorpe, you will have the goodness to follow him.” 

“ Rare joke ! admirable ! — Good morning, sir. Ha, ha !” 

And with his unruffieable hilariousness, Millthorpe quitted 
the room. 

But hardly had the door closed upon him, nor had he yet 
removed his hand from its outer knob, when suddenly it swung 
half open again, and thrusting his fair curly head within, Mill- 
thorpe cried : “ By the way, my boy, I have a word for you. 
You know that greasy fellow who has been dunning you so of 
late. Well, be at rest there ; he’s paid. I was suddenly made 
flush yesterday : — regular flood-tide. You can return it any day, 
you know— no hurry ; that’s all.— But, by the way,— as you 
look as though you were going to have company here — just 
send for me in case you want to use me — any bedstead to put 
up, or heavy things to be lifted about. Don’t you and the 
women do it, now, mind ! That’s all again. Addios, my boy. 
Take care of yourself!” 


436 


PIERKE. 


“ Stay !” cried Pierre, reaching forth one hand, but moving 
neither foot — “ Stay !” — in the midst of all his prior emotions 
struck by these singular traits in Millthorpe. But the door 
was abruptly closed ; and singing Fa, la, la : Millthorpe in his 
seedy coat went tripping down the corridor. 

“ Plus heart, minus head,” muttered Pierre, his eyes fixed on 
the door. “ Now, by heaven ! the god that made Millthorpe 
was both a better and a greater than the god that made Napo- 
leon or Byron. — Plus head, minus heart — Pah ! the brains 
grow maggoty without a heart ; but the heart’s the preserving 
salt itself, and can keep sweet without the head. — Delly I” 

« Sir?” 

“ My cousin Miss Tartan is coming here to live with us, 
Belly. That easel, — those trunks are hers.” 

“ Good heavens ! — coming here ? — your cousin ? — Miss Tar- 
tan ?” 

“ Yes, I thought you must have heard of her and me ; — but 
it was broken oflf, Delly.” 

“Sir? Sir?” 

“ I have no explanation, Delly ; and from you, I must have 
no amazement. My cousin, — mind, my cousin^ Miss Tartan, is 
coming to live with us. The next room to this, on the other 
side there, is unoccupied. That room shall be hers. You 
must wait upon her, too, Delly.” 

“ Certainly sir, certainly ; I will do any thing ;” said Delly 
trembling ; “ but, — but — does Mrs. Glendin-din — does my mis- 
tress know this ?” 

“ My wife knows all” — said Pierre sternly. “ I will go down 
and get the key of the room ; and you mu^t sweep it out.” 

“ What is to be put into it, sir ?” said Delly. “ Miss Tartan 
— why, she is used to all sorts of fine things, — rich carpets — 
wardrobes — mirrors — curtains ; — why, why, why !” 

“ Look,” said Pierre, touching an old rug with his foot ; — 
“ here is a bit of carpet ; drag that into her room ; here is a 


PIEEKE. 


437 


chair, put that in ; and for a bed, — ay, ay,” he muttered to 
himself ; “ I have made it for her, and she ignorantly lies on it 
now ! — as made — so lie. Oh God !” 

“ Hark ! my mistress is calling” — cried Delly, moving toward 
the opposite room. 

“ Stay !” — cried Pierre, grasping her shoulder ; “ if both 
called at one time from these opposite chambers, and both were 
swooning, which door would you first fly to ?” 

The girl gazed at him uncomprehendingly and affrighted a 
moment ; and then said, — “ This one, sir” — out of mere con- 
fusion perhaps, putting her hand on Isabel’s latch. 

“ It is well. How go.” 

He stood in an intent unchanged attitude till Delly returned. 

“ How is my wife, now ?” 

Again startled by the peculiar emphasis placed on the magi- 
cal word wife^ Delly, who had long before this, been occasion- 
ally struck with the infrequency of his using that term ; she 
looked at him perplexedly, and said half-unconsciously — 

“ Your wife, sir ?” 

“ Ay, is she not ?” 

“ God grant that she be — Oh, ’tis most cruel to ask that of 
poor, poor Delly, sir !” 

“ Tut for thy tears ! Never deny it again then ! — I swear to 
heaven, she is !” 

With these wild words, Pierre seized his hat, and departed 
the room, muttering something about bringing the key of the 
additional chamber. 

As the door closed on him, Delly dropped on her knees- 
She lifted her head toward the ceiling, but dropped it again, 
as if tyrannically awed downward, and bent it low over, till her 
whole form tremulously cringed to the floor. 

“ God that made me, and that wast not so hard to me as 
wicked Delly deserved,— God that made me, I pray to thee ! 
ward it off from me, if it be coming to me. Be not deaf to me ; 


438 


PIERRE. 


these stony walls — Thou canst hear through them. Pity! 
pity ! — mercy, my God !— rif they are not married ; if I, peni- 
tentially seeking to be pure, am now but the servant to a 
greater sin, than I myself committed : then, pity ! pity ! pity ! 
pity ! pity ! Oh^God that made me, — See me, see me here— ^ 
what can Delly do ? Tf I go hence, none will take me in but 
villains. If I stay, then — for stay I'- must — and they be not 
married, — then pity, pity, pity, pity, pity !” 







BOOK XXIV. 


j . ■ i i 





LUCY AT THE APOSTLES. 


^ ‘ ^ ■ L ^ ' 

Next morning, the recently appropriated room adjoining on 
the other side of the dining-room, presented a different aspect 
from that which met the eye of Delly upon first unlocking it 
with Pierre on the previous evening. Two squares of faded 
carpeting of different patterns, covered the middle of the floor, 
leaving,’ toward the surbase, a wide, blank' margin around them. 
A small glass hung in the pier ; beneath that, a little stand, 
with a foot or two of carpet before it. In one corner was a cot, 
neatly equipped with bedding. At the outer side of the cot, 
another strip of carpeting was placed. Lucy’s delicate feet 
should not shiver on the naked fipor. 

Pierre, Isabel, and Delly were standing in the room ; Isabel’s 
eyes were fixed on the cot. 

“ I think it will be pretty cosy now,” said Delly, palely glanc- 
ing aU round, and then adjusting the pillow anew. 

There is no warmth, though,” said Isabel. “ Pierre, there 
is no stove in the room. She will be very cold. The pipe — 
can we not send it this way ?” And she looked more intently 
at him, than the question seemed to warrant. 

Let the pipe stay where it is, Isabel,” said Pierre, answer- 
ing her own pointed gaze. “ The dining-room door can stand 
open. She never liked sleeping in a heated room. Let all be ; 


440 


P I E KR E. 


it is well. Eh ! but there is a grate here, I see. I will buy 
coals. Yes, yes — ^that can be easily done ; a little fire of a 
morning — the expense y^ill be nothing. Stay, we will have a 
little fire here now for a welcome. She shall always have 
fire.” 

“ Better change the pipe, Pierre,” said Isabel, “ that will be 
permanent, and save the coals.” 

“ It shall not be done, Isabel. Doth not that pipe and that 
warmth go into thy room ? Shall I rob my wife, good Delly, 
even to benefit my most devoted and true-hearted cousin ?” 

“ Oh ! I should say not, sir ; not at all,” said Delly hysteri- 
cally. 

A triumphant fire flashed in Isabel’s eye ; her full bosom 
arched out ; but she was silent. 

“ She may be here, now, at any moment, Isabel,” said Pierre ; 
“ come, we will meet her in the dining-room ; that is our re- 
ception-place, thou knowest.” 

So the three went into the dining-room. 


II. 

• 

They had not been there long, when Pierre, who had been 
pacing up and down, suddenly paused, as if struck by some 
laggard thought, which had just occurred to him at the elev- 
enth hour. First he looked toward Delly, as if about to bid 
her quit the apartment, while he should say something private 
to Isabel ; but as if, on a second thought, holding the contraiy 
of this procedure most advisable, he, without preface, at once 
addressed Isabel, in his ordinary conversational tone, so that 
Delly could not but plainly hear him, whether she would 
or no. 

“ My dear Isabel, though, as I said to thee before, my cousin, 


PIERRE. 


441 


Miss Tartan, that strange, and willful, nun-like girl, is at all haz- 
ards, mystically resolved to come and live with us, yet it must 
he quite impossible that her friends can approve in her such a 
singular step ; a step even more singular, Isabel, than thou, in 
thy unsophisticatedness, can’st at all imagine. I shall be im- 
mensely deceived if they do not, to their very utmost, strive 
against it. Now what I am going to add may be quite un- 
necessary, but I can not avoid speaking it, for all that.” 

Isabel with empty hands sat silent, but intently and expect- 
antly eying him ; while behind her chair, Delly was bending 
her face low over her knitting— -which she had seized so soon 
as Pierre had begun speaking — and with trembling fingers was 
nervously twitching the points of her long needles. It was 
plain that she awaited Pierre’s accents with hardly much less 
eagerness than Isabel. Marking well this expression in Delly, 
and apparently not unpleased with it, Pierre continued ; but by 
no slightest outward tone or look seemed addressing his re- 
marks to any one but Isabel. 

“ Now what I mean, dear Isabel, is this : if that very proba- 
ble hostility on the part of Miss Tartan’s friends to her fulfilling 
her sti-ange resolution^if any of that hostility should chance to 
be manifested under thine eye, then thou certainly wilt know 
how to account for it ; and as certainly wilt draw no inference 
from it in the minutest conceivable degree involving any thing 
sinister in me. No, I am sure thou wilt not, my dearest Isabel. 
For, understand me, regarding this strange mood in my cousin 
as a thing wholly above my comprehension, and indeed regard- 
ing my poor cousin herself as a rapt enthusiast in some wild 
mystery utterly unknown to me ; and unwilling ignorantly to 
interfere in what almost seems some supernatural thing, I shall 
not repulse her coming, however violently her friends may seek 
to stay it. I shall not repulse, as certainly as I have not in- 
vited. But a neutral attitude sometimes seems a suspicious 
one. Now what I mean is this ; let all such vague suspicions 


442 


PIERKB, 


of me, if any, be confined to Lucy’s friends ; but let not such 
absurd misgivings come near my dearest Isabel, to give tbe 
least uneasiness. Isabel ! tell me ; have I not now said enough 
to make plain what I mean ? Or, indeed, is not all I have 
said wholly unnecessaiy ; seeing that when one feels deeply 
conscientious, one is often apt to seem superfluously, and in- 
deed unpleasantly and unbeseemingly scrupulous ? Speak, my 
own Isabel,” — and he stept nearer to her, reaching forth his 
arm. 

“ Thy hand is the caster’s ladle, Pierre, which holds me en- 
tirely fluid. Into thy forms and slightest moods of thought, 
thou pourest me ; and I there solidify to that form, and take 
it on, and thenceforth wear it, till once more thou moldest me 
anew. If what thou tellest me be thy thought, then how can 
I help its being mine, my Pierre ?” 

“ The gods made thee of a holyday, when all the common 
world was done, and shaped thee leisurely in elaborate hours, 
thou paragon !” 

So saying, in a burst of admiring love and wonder, Pierre 
paced the room ; while Isabel sat silent, leaning on her hand, 
and half-vailed with her hair. Delly’s nervous stitches became 
less convulsive. She seemed soothed ; some dark and vague 
conceit seemed driven out of her by something either directly 
expressed by Pierre, or inferred from his expressions. 


III. 

Pierre! Pierre !— Quick ! Quick!— They are dragging 

me back ! — oh, quick, dear Pierre !” 

“ What is that ?” swiftly cried Isabel, rising to her feet, and 
amazedly glancing toward the door leading into the corridor. 


PIERRE. 


448 


But Pierre darted from the room, prohibiting any one from 
following him. 

Half-way down the stairs, a slight, airy, almost unearthly 
figure was clinging to the balluster ; and two young men, one 
in naval uniform, were vainly seeking to remove the two thin 
white hands without hurting them. They were Glen Stanly, 
and Frederic, the elder brother of Lucy. 

In a moment, Pierre’s hands were among the rest. 

“ Villain ! — Damn thee !” cried Frederic ; and letting go the 
hand of his sister, he struck fiercely at Pierre. 

But the blow was intercepted by Pierre. 

“ Thou hast bewitched, thou damned juggler, the sweetest 
angel ! Defend thyself.*” 

“ Nay, nay,” cried Glen, catching the drawn rapier of the 
frantic brother, and holding him in his powerful grasp; “he is 
unarmed ; this is no time or place to settle our feud with him. 
Thy sister, — sweet Lucy — let us save her first, and then what 
thou wilt. Pierre Glendinning — if thou art but the little finger 
of a man — begone with thee from hence ! Thy depravity, thy 
pollutedness, is that of a fiend ! — Thou canst not desire this 
thing ; — the sweet girl is mad !” 

Pierre stepped back a little, and looked palely and haggardly 
at all three. 

“ I render no accounts : I am what I am. This sweet girl 

this angel whom ye two defile by your touches— she is of 

age by the law : — she is her own mistress by the law. And 
now, I swear she shall have her will ! Unhand the girl ! Let 
her 'stand alone. See; she will faint; let her go, I say!” 
And again his hands were among them. 

Suddenly, as they all, for the one instant vaguely struggled, 
the pale girl drooped, and fell sideways toward Pierre ; and, 
unprepared for this, the two opposite champions, unconsciously 
relinquished their hold, tripped, and stumbled against each 
other, and both fell on the stairs. Snatching Lucy in his arms, 


444 


PIEKBE. 


Pierre darted from them ; gained the door ; drove before him 
Isabel and Delly, — who, affrighted, had been lingering there ; 
— and bursting into the prepared chamber, laid Lucy on her 
cot ; then swiftly turned out of the room, and locked them all 
three in : and so swiftly — like lightning — was this whole thing 
done, that not till the lock clicked, did he find Glen and 
Frederic fiercely fi'onting him. 

“ Gentlemen, it is all over. This door is locked. She is in 
women’s hands. — Stand back !” 

As the two infuriated young men now caught at him to hurl 
him aside, several of the Apostles rapidly entered, having been 
attracted by the noise. 

“ Drag them off from me !” cried Pien-e. “ They are tres- 
passers! drag them off 1” 

Immediately Glen and Frederic were pinioned by twenty 
hands ; and, in obedience to a sign from Pierre, were dragged 
out of the room, and dragged down stairs ; and given into the 
custody of a passing officer, as two disorderly youths invading 
the sanctuary of a private retreat. 

In vain they fiercely expostulated ; but at last, as if now 
aware that nothing further could be done without some pre- 
vious legal action, they most reluctantly and chafingly de- 
clared themselves ready to depart. Accordingly they were let 
go ; but not without a terrible menace of swift retribution di- 
rected to Pien’e. 


lY. 

Happy is the dumb man in the hour of passion. He makes 
no impulsive threats, and therefore seldom falsifies himself in 
the transition fi-om choler to calm. 

Proceeding into the thoroughfare, after leaving the Apos- 


PIERRE. 


445 


ties’, it was not very long ere Glen and Frederic concluded be- 
tween themselves, that Lucy could not so easily be rescued by 
threat or force. The pale, inscrutable determinateness, and 
flinchless intrepidity of Pierre, now began to domineer upon 
them; for any social unusualness or greatness is sometimes 
most impressive in the retrospect. What Pierre had said con- 
cerning Lucy’s being her own mistress in the eye of the law ; 
this now recurred to them. After much tribulation of thought, 
the more collected Glen proposed, that Frederic’s mother should 
visit the rooms of Pierre ; he imagined, that though insensible 
to their own united intimidations, Lucy might not prove deaf 
to the maternal prayers. Had Mrs. Tartan been a different 
woman than she was ; had she indeed any disinterested agonies 
of a generous heart, and not mere match-making mortifications, 
however poignant ; then the hope of Frederic and Glen might 
have had more likelihood in it. Nevertheless, the experiment 
was tried, but signally failed. 

In the combined presence of her mother, Pierre, Isabel, and 
Delly ; and addressing Pierre and Isabel as Mr. and Mrs. 
Glendinning ; Lucy took the most solemn vows upon herself, 
to reside with her present host and hostess until they should 
cast her off*. In vain her by turns suppliant, and exasperated 
mother went down on her knees to her, or seemed almost on 
the point of smiting her ; in vain she painted all the scorn and 
the loathing; sideways hinted of the handsome and gallant 
Glen; threatened her that in case she persisted, her entire 
family would renounce her ; and though she should be starv- 
ing, would not bestow one morsel upon such a recreant, and 
infinitely worse than dishonorable girl. 

To all this, Lucy — now entirely unmenaced in person— re- 
plied in the gentlest and 'most heavenly manner; yet with a 
collectedness, and steadfastness, from which there was nothing 
to hope. What she was doing was not of herself ; she had 
been moved to it by all-encompassing influences above, around. 


446 


P IE E E E. 


and beneath. She felt no pain for her own condition ; her only 
suftering was sympathetic. She looked for no reward ; the es- 
sence of well-doing was the consciousness of having done well 
without the least hope of reward. Concerning the loss of 
worldly wealth and sumptuousness, and all the brocaded ap- 
plauses of drawing-rooms ; these were no loss to her, for they 
had always been valueless. Nothing was she now renouncing ; 
but in acting upon her present inspiration she was inheriting 
every thing. Indifferent to scorn, she craved no pity. As to 
the question of her sanity, that matter she referred to the ver- 
dict of angels, and not to the sordid opinions of man. If any 
one protested that^ she was defying the sacred counsels of her 
mother, she had nothing to answer but this : that her mother 
possessed all her daughterly deference, but her unconditional 
obedience was elsewhere due. Let all hope of moving her be 
immediately, and once for all, abandoned. One only thing 
could move her ; and that would only move her, to make her 
forever immovable ; — that thing was death. 

Such wonderful strength in such wonderful sweetness ; such 
inflexibility in one so fragile, would have been matter for mar- 
vel to any observer. But to her mother it was very much more ; 
for, like many other superficial observers, forming her previous 
opinion of Lucy upon the slightness of her person, and the 
dulcetness of her temper, Mrs. Tartan had always imagined that 
her daughter was quite incapable of any such daring act. As 
if sterling heavenliness were incompatible with heroicness. These 
two are never found apart. Nor, though Pierre knew more of 
Lucy than any one else, did this most singular behavior in her 
fail to amaze him. Seldom even had the mystery of Isabel fas- 
cinated him more, with a fascination partaking of the terrible. 
The mere bodily aspect of Lucy, as changed by her more re- 
cent life, filled him with the most powerful and novel emotions. 
That unsullied complexion of bloom was now entirely gone, 
without being any way replaced by sallowness, as is usual in 


PIERRE. 


447 


similar instances. And as if her body indeed were the temple 
of God, and marble indeed were the only fit material for so 
holy a shrine, a brilliant, supernatural whiteness now gleamed 
in her cheek. Her head sat on her shouldei-s as a chiseled 
statue’s head ; and the soft, firm light in her eye seemed as 
much a prodigy, as though a chiseled statue should give token 
of vision and intelligence. 

Isabel also was most strangely moved by this sweet unearth 
liness in the aspect of Lucy. But it did not so much persuade 
her by any common appeals to her heart, as irrespectively com- 
mend her by the very signet of heaven. In the deference with 
which she ministered to Lucy’s httle occasional wants, there 
was more of blank spontaneousness than compassionate volun- 
tariness. And when it so chanced, that — owing perhaps to 
some momentary jarring of the distant and lonely guitar — as 
Lucy was so mildly speaking in the presence of her mother, a 
sudden, just audible, submissively answering musical, stringed 
tone, came through the open door from the adjoining chamber ; 
then Isabel, as if seized by some spiritual awe, fell on her knees 
before Lucy, and made a rapid gesture of homage ; yet still, 
somehow, as it were, without evidence of voluntary will. 

Finding all her most ardent efibrts inefiectual, Mrs. Tartan 
now distressedly motioned to Pien-e and Isabel to quit the cham- 
ber, that she might urge her entreaties and menaces in private. 
But Lucy gently waved them to stay ; and then turned to her 
mother. Henceforth she had no secrets but those which would 
also be secrets in heaven. Whatever was publicly known in 
heaven, should be .publicly known on earth. There was no 
slightest secret between her and her mother. 

Wholly confounded by this inscrutableness of her so aliena- 
ted and infatuated daughter, Mrs. Tartan turned inflamedly 
upon Pierre, and bade him follow her forth. But again Lucy 
said nay, there were no secrets between her mother and Pierre. 
She would anticipate every thing there. Calling for pen and 


448 


PIERRE. 


paper, and a book to hold on her knee and write, she traced 
the following lines, and reached them to her mother : 

“ I am Lucy Tartan. I have come to dwell during their 
pleasure with Mr. and Mrs. Pierre Glendinning, of my own un- 
solicited free-will. If they desire it, I shall go ; but no other 
power shall remove me, except by violence ; and against any 
violence I have the ordinary appeal to the law.” 

“ Read this, madam,” said Mrs. Tartan, tremblingly handing 
it to Isabel, and eying her with a passionate and disdainful sig- 
nificance. 

“I have read it,” said Isabel, quietly, after a glance, and 
handing it to Pierre, as if by that act to show, that she had no 
separate decision in the matter. 

“ And do you, sir, too, indirectly connive ?” said Mrs. Tartan 
to Pien’e, when he had read it. 

“ I render no accounts, madam. This seems to be the written 
and final calm will of your daughter. As such, you had best 
respect it, and depart.” 

Mrs. Tartan glanced despairingly and incensedly about her ; 
then fixing her eyes on her daughter, spoke. 

“ Girl ! here where I stand, I forever cast thee oft’. Never 
more shalt thou be vexed by my maternal entreaties. I shall 
instruct thy brothers to disown thee; I shall instruct Glen 
Stanly to banish thy worthless image from his heart, if ban- 
ished thence it be not already by thine own incredible folly and 
depravity. For thee, Mr. Monster ! the judgment of God will 
overtake thee for this. And for thee, madam, I have no words 
for the woman who will connivingly permit her own husband’s 
paramour to dwell beneath her roof. For thee, frail one,” (to 
Delly), “ thou needest no amplification. — A nest of vileness ! 
And now, surely, whom God himself hath abandoned forever, 
a mother may quit, never more to revisit.” 

This parting maternal malediction seemed to work no visibly 
corresponding effect upon Lucy ; already she was so marble- 


PIERRE. 


449 


white, that fear could no more blanch her, if indeed fear was 
then at all within her heart. For as the highest, and purest, 
and thinnest ether remains unvexed by all the tumults of the 
inferior air ; so that transparent ether of her cheek, that clear 
mild azure of her eye, showed no sign of passion, as her terres- 
trial mother stormed below. Helpings she had from unstirring 
arms ; glimpses she caught of aid invisible ; sustained she was 
*by those high powers of immortal Love, that once siding with 
the weakest reed which the utmost tempest tosses ; then that 
utmost tempest shall be broken down before the irresistible re- 
sistings of that weakest reed. 


BOOK XXV. 


LUCY, ISABEL, AND PIERRE. PIERRE AT HIS BOOK. 
ENCELADUS. 


I. 

A DAY or two after tlie arrival of Lucy, when she had quite 
recovered from any possible ill-effects of recent events, — events 
conveying such a shock to both Pierre and Isabel, — though to 
each in a quite different way, — ^but not, apparently, at least, 
moving Lucy so intensely — as they were all three sitting at 
coffee, Lucy expressed her intention to practice her crayon art 
professionally. It would be so pleasant an employment for her, 
besides contributing to their common fund. Pierre well knew 
her expertness in catching likenesses, and judiciously and truth- 
fully beautifying them ; not by altering the features so much, 
as by steeping them in a beautifying atmosphere. For even so> 
said Lucy, thrown into the Lagoon, and there beheld — as I have 
heard — the roughest stones, without transformation, put on the 
softest aspects. If Pieri’e would only take a little trouble to 
bring sitters to her room, she doubted not a fine harvest of 
heads might easily be secured. Certainly, among the numerous 
inmates of the old Church, Pierre must know many who would 
have no objections to being sketched. Moreover, though as yet 
she had had small opportunity to see them ; yet among such a 
remarkable company of poets, philosophers, and mystics of all 
sorts, there must be some striking heads. In conclusion, she 


PIERRE. 


451 


expressed her satisfaction at the chamber prepared for her, in- 
asmuch as having been formerly the studio of an artist, one 
window had been considerably elevated, while by a singular ar- 
rangement of the interior shutters, the light could in any direc- 
tion be thrown about at will. 

Already Pierre had anticipated something of this sort ; the 
first sight of the easel having suggested it to him. His reply 
was therefore not wholly unconsidered. He said, that so far as 
she herself was concerned, the systematic practice of her art at 
present would certainly be a great advantage in supplying her 
with a very delightful occupation. But since she could hardly 
hope for any patronage from her mother’s fashionable and 
wealthy associates ; indeed, as such a thing must be very far 
from her own desires ; and as it was only from the Apostles 
she could — for some time to come, at least — ^reasonably antici- 
pate sitters ; and as those Apostles were almost univei*sally a 
very forlorn and penniless set — though in truth there were 
some wonderfully rich-looking heads among them — therefore, 
Lucy must not look for much immediate pecuniary emolument. 
Ere long she might indeed do something very handsome ; but 
at the outset, it was well to be moderate in her expectations. 
This admonishment came, modifiedly, from that certain stoic, 
dogged mood of Pierre, born of his recent life, which taught 
him never to expect any good from any thing ; but always to 
anticipate ill ; however not in unreadiness to meet the contrary ; 
and then, if good came, so much the better. He added that 
he would that very morning go among the rooms and corridors 
of the Apostles, familiarly announcing that his cousin, a lady- 
trtist in crayons, occupied a room adjoining his, where she 
vould be very happy to receive any sitters. 

“ And now, Lucy, what shall be the terms ? That is a very 
mportant point, thou knowest.” 

“ I suppose, Pierre, they must be very low,” said Lucy, look- 
ng at him meditatively. 


452 


PIERRE. 


“Very low, Lucy; very low, indeed.” 

“ Well, ten dollai-s, then.” 

“ Ten Banks of England, Lucy !” exclaimed Pierre. “ Why, 
Lucy, that were almost a quarter’s income for some of the 
Apostles !” 

“ Four dollars, Pierre.” 

“ I will tell thee now, Lucy — but first, how long does it take 
to complete one portrait ?” 

“ Two sittings ; and two mornings’ work by myself, Pierre.” 

“ And let me see ; what are thy materials ? They are not 
very costly, I believe. ’Tis not like cutting glass, — thy tools 
must not be pointed with diamonds, Lucy ?” 

“ See, Pierre !” said Lucy, holding out her little palm, “ see ; 
this handful of charcoal, a bit of bread, a crayon or two, and a 
square of paper : — that is all.” 

“ Well, then, thou shalt charge one-seventy-five for a por- 
trait.” 

“ Only one-seventy-five, Pierre ?” 

“ I am half afraid now we have set it far too high, Lucy. 
Thou must not be extravagant. Look : if thy terms were ten 
dollars, and thou didst crayon on trust; then thou wouldst 
have plenty of sitters, but small returns. But if thou puttest 
thy terms right-down, and also sayest thou must have thy cash 
right-down too — don’t start so at that cash — then not so many 
sitters to be sure, but more returns. Thou understandest.” 

“ It shall be just as thou say’st, Pierre.” 

“ Well, then, I will wi'ite a card for thee, stating thy terms ; 
and put it up conspicuously in thy room, so that every Apostle 
may know what he has to expect.” 

“ Thank thee, thank thee, cousin Pierre,” said Lucy, rising. 
“ I rejoice at thy pleasant and not entirely unhopeful view of 
my poor little plan. But I must be doing something ; I must 
be earning money. See, I have eaten ever so much bread this 
morning, but have not earned one penny.” 


PIERRE. 


458 


With a humorous sadness Pierre measured the large remain- 
der of the pne only piece she had touched, and then would 
have spoken banteringly to her ; but she had slid away into 
her own room. 

He was presently roused from the strange revery into which 
the conclusion of this scene had thrown him, by the touch of 
Isabel’s hand upon his knee, and her large expressive glance 
upon his face. During all the foregoing colloquy, she had re- 
mained entirely silent ; but an unoccupied observer would per- 
haps have noticed, that some new and very strong emotions 
were restrainedly stirring within her. 

“ Pierre !” she said, intently bending over toward him. 

“ Well, well, Isabel,” stammeringly rephed Pierre ; while a 
mysterious color suffused itself over his whole face, neck, and 
brow ; and involuntarily he started a little back from her self- 
proffering form. 

Arrested by this movement Isabel eyed him fixedly ; then 
slowly rose, and with immense mournful stateliness, drew her- 
self up, and said : “ If thy sister can ever come too nigh to 
thee, Pierre, tell thy sister so, beforehand ; for the September 
sun draws not up the valley-vapor more jealously from the dis- 
dainful earth, than my secret god shall draw me up from thee, 
if ever I can come too nigh to thee.” 

Thus speaking, one hand was on her bosom, as if resolutely 
feeling of something deadly there concealed ; but, riveted by 
her general manner more than by her particular gesture, Pierre, 
at the instant, did not so particularly note the all-significant move- 
ment of the hand upon her bosom, though afterward he^ re- 
called it, and darkly and thoroughly comprehended its meaning. 

“ Too nigh to me, Isabel ? Sun or dew, thou fertilizest me ! 
Can sunbeams or drops of dew come too nigh the thing they 
warm and water ? Then sit down by me, Isabel, and sit close ; 
wind in within my ribs,— if so thou canst,— that my one frame 
may be the continent of two.” 


454 


PIEKEE. 


“ Fine feathers make fine birds, so I have heard,” said Isa- 
bel, most bitterly — “ but do fine sayings always make fine 
deeds ? PieiTe, thou didst but just now draw away from me !” 

“ When we would most dearly embrace, we first throw back 
our arms, Isabel ; I but drew away, to draw so much the closer 
to thee.” 

“ Well ; all words are arrant skirmishere ; deeds are the ar- 
ray’s self! be it as thou sayest. I yet trust to thee. — Pierre.” 

“ My breath waits thine ; what is it, Isabel ?” 

“ I have been more blockish than a block ; I am mad to 
think of it ! More mad, that her great sweetness should first 
remind me of mine own stupidity. But she shall not get the 
start of me 1 Pierre, some way I must work for thee 1 See, 
I will sell this hair ; have these teeth pulled out ; but some 
way I will earn money for thee 1” 

Pierre now eyed her startledly. Touches of a determinate 
meaning shone in her ; some hidden thing was deeply wounded 
in her. An affectionate soothing syllable was on his tongue ; 
his arm was out ; when shifting his expression, he whisperingly 
aud alarmedly exclaimed — “ Hark I she is coming. — ^Be still.” 

But rising boldly, Isabel threw open the connecting door, 
exclaiming half-hysterically — “ Look, Lucy ; here is the strang- 
est husband ; fearful of being caught speaking to his wife 1” 

With an artist’s little box before her — whose rattling, per- 
haps, had startled Pierre — Lucy was sitting mid-way in her 
room, opposite the opened door ; so that at that moment, both 
Pierre and Isabel were plainly visible to her. The singular 
tone of Isabel’s voice instantly caused her to look up intently. 
At once, a sudden irradiation of some subtile intelligence — but 
whether welcome to her, or otherwise, could not be determined 
— shot over her whole aspect. She murmured some vague 
random reply ; and then bent low over her box, saying she 
was very busy. 

Isabel closed the door, and sat down again by Pierre. Her 


PIE EKE. 


455 


countenance wore a mixed and writhing, impatient look. She 
seemed as one in whom the most powerful emotion of life is 
caught in inextricable toils of circumstances, and while longing 
to disengage itself, still knows that all struggles will prove 
worse than vain ; and so, for the moment, grows madly reck- 
less and defiant of all obstacles. PieiTe trembled as he gazed 
upon her. But soon the mood passed from her; her old, 
sweet mournfulness returned; again the clear unfathomable- 
ness was in her mystic eye. 

“ Pierre, ere now, — ere I ever knew thee — I have done mad 
things, which I have never been conscious of, but in the dim 
recalling. I hold such things no things of mine. What I 
now remember, as just now done, was one of them.” 

“ Thou hast done nothing but shown thy strength, while I 
have shown my weakness, Isabel ; — ^yes, to the whole world 
thou art my wife — to her, too, thou art my wife. Have I not 
told her so, myself ? I was weaker than a kitten, Isabel ; and 
thou, strong as those high things angelical, from which utmost 
beauty takes not strength.” 

“ Pierre, once such syllables from thee, were all refreshing, 
and bedewing to me ; now, though they drop as warmly and 
as fluidly from thee, yet falling through another and an inter- 
cepting zone, they freeze on the way, and clatter on my heart 
like hail, Pierre. Thou didst not speak thus to her !” 

“ She is not Isabel.” 

The girl gazed at him with a quick and piercing scrutiny ; 
then looked quite calm, and spoke. “ My guitar, Pierre : thou 
know’st how complete a mistress I am of it ; now, before thou 
gettest sitters for the portrait-sketcher, thou shalt get pupils for 
the music-teacher. W^ilt thou ?” and she looked at him with 
a persuasiveness and touchingness, which to Pierre, seemed 
more than mortal. 

“ My poor poor, Isabel !” cried Pierre ; “ thou art the mis- 
tress of the natural sweetness of the guitar, not of its invented 


456 


PIEERE. 


regulated artifices ; and these are all that the silly pupil will 
pay for learning. And what thou hast can not be taught. 
Ah, thy sweet ignorance is all transporting to me ! my sweet, 
my sweet! — dear, divine girl!” And impulsively he caught 
her in his arms. 

While the first fire of his feeling plainly glowed upon him, 
but ere he had yet caught her to him, Isabel had backward 
glided close to the connecting door ; which, at the instant of 
his embrace, suddenly opened, as by its own volition. 

Before the eyes of seated Lucy, Pierre and Isabel stood 
locked ; Pierre’s lips upon her cheek. 


II. 

Notwithstanding the maternal visit of Mi’s. Tartan, and the 
peremptoriness with which it had been closed by her declared 
departure never to return, and her vow to teach all Lucy’s rel- 
atives and friends, and Lucy’s own brothers, and her suitor, to 
disown her, and forget her ; yet Pierre fancied that he knew 
too much in general of the human heart, and too much in par- 
ticular of the character of both Glen and Frederic, to remain 
entirely untouched by disquietude, concerning what those two 
fieiy youths might now be plotting against him, as the imag- 
ined monster, by whose infernal tricks Lucy Tartan was sup- 
posed to have been seduced from every earthly seemliness. Not 
happily, but only so much the more gloomily, did he augur 
from the fact, that Mrs. Tartan had come to Lucy unattended ; 
and that Glen and Frederic had let eight-and-forty hours and 
more go by, without giving the slightest hostile or neutral sign. 
At first he thought, that bridling their impulsive fierceness, 
they were Tesolved to take the slower, but perhaps the surer 
method, to wrest Lucy back to them, by instituting some legal 


PIERRE. 


467 


process. But this idea was repulsed by more than one consid- 
eration. 

Not only was Frederic of that sort of temper, peculiar to 
military men, which would prompt him, in so closely personal 
and intensely private and family a matter, to scorn the hireling 
publicity of the law’s lingering arm ; and impel him, as by the 
furiousness of fire, to be his own lighter and avenger ; for, in 
him, it was perhaps quite as much the feeling of an outrageous 
family affront to himself, through Lucy, as her own presumed 
separate wrong, however black, which stung him to the quick : 
not only were these things so respecting Frederic ; but con- 
cerning Glen, Pierre well knew, that be Glen heartless as he 
might, to do a deed of love, Glen was not heartless to do a deed 
of hate ; that though, on that memorable night of his arrival 
in the city, Glen had heartlessly closed his door upon him, yet 
now Glen might heartfully burst Pierre’s open, if by that he 
at all believed, that permanent success would crown the fray. 

Besides, Pierre knew this ; — that so invincible is the natural, 
untamable, latent spirit of a courageous manliness in man, that 
though now socially educated for thousands of years in an ar- 
bitrary homage to the Law, as the one only appointed redress 
for every injured person ; yet immemorially and universally, 
among all gentlemen of spirit, once to have uttered independent 
personal threats of personal vengeance against your foe, and 
then, after that, to fall back slinking into a court, and hire with 
sops a pack of yelping pettifoggers to fight the battle so val- 
iantly proclaimed ; this, on the surface, is ever deemed veiy 
decorous, and very prudent — a most wise second thought ; but, 
at bottom, a miserably ignoble thing. Frederic was not the 
watery man for that, — Glen had more grapey blood in him. 

Moreover, it seemed quite clear to Pierre, that only by mak- 
ing out Lacy absolutely mad, and striving to prove it by a 
thousand d^^picable little particulars, could the law succeed in 
tearing hei from the refuge she had voluntarily sought; a 


458 


PIERRE. 


coui-se equally abliorrent to all the parties possibly to be con- 
cerned on either side. 

What then would those two boiling bloods do ? Perhaps 
they would patrol the streets ; and at the first glimpse of lonely 
Lucy, kidnap her home. Or if Pierre were with her, then, 
smite him down by hook or crook, fair play or foul ; and then, 
away with Lucy ! Or if Lucy systematically kept her room, 
then fall on Pierre in the most public way, fell him, and cover 
him from all decent recognition beneath heaps on heaps of 
hate and insult ; so that broken on the wheel of such dishon- 
or, Pierre might feel himself unstrung, and basely yield the 
prize. 

Not the gibbering of ghosts in any old haunted house ; no 
sulphurous and portentous sign at night beheld in heaven, will 
so make the hair to stand, as when a proud and honorable man 
is revolving in his soul the possibilities of some gross public and 
corporeal disgrace. It is not fear ; it is a pride-horror, which is 
more terrible than any fear. Then, by tremendous imagery, 
the murderer’s mark of Cain is felt burning on the brow, and 
the already sysquitted knife blood-rusts in the clutch of the an- 
ticipating hand. 

Certain that those two youths must be plotting' something 
furious against him ; with the echoes of their scorning curses 
on the staii-s still ringing in his ears — curses, whose swift re- 
sponses from himself, he, at the time, had had much ado to 
check ; — thoroughly alive to the supernaturalism of that mad 
frothing hate which a spirited brother forks forth at the insulter 
of a sister’s honor — beyond doubt the most uncompromising of all 
the social passions knowm to man — and not blind to the anoma- 
lous fact, that if such a brother stab his foe at his own mother’s 
table, all people and all juries would bear him out, accounting 
every thing allowable to a noble soul made mad by a sweet 
sister’s shame caused by a damned seducer ; — imagining to 
himself his own feelings, if he were actually in the position 


PIEERE. 


459 


which Frederic so vividly fancied to be his ; remembering that 
in love matters jealousy is as an adder, and that the jealousy of 
Glen was double-addered by the extraordinary malice of the ap- 
parent circumstances under which Lucy had spurned Glen’s 
arms, and fled to his always successful and now married rival, 
as if wantonly and shamelessly to nestle there ; — remembering 
all these intense incitements of both those foes of his, Pierre 
could not but look forward to wild work very soon to come. Nor 
was the storm of passion in his soul unratified by the deci- 
sion of his coolest possible hour. Storm and calm both said to 
him, — Look to thyself, oh Pierre ! 

Murders are done by maniacs ; but the earnest thoughts of 
murder, these are the collected desperadoes. Pierre was such ; 
fate, or what you will, had made him such. But such he was. 
And when these things now swam before him ; when he thought 
of all the ambiguities which hemmed him in ; the stony walls 
all round that he could not overleap ; the million aggravations 
of his most malicious lot; the last lingering hope of happi- 
ness licked up from him as by flames of fire, and his one only 
prospect a black, bottomless gulf of guilt, upon whose verge he 
imminently teetered every hour ; — then the utmost hate of Glen 
and Frederic were jubilantly welcome to him ; and murder, 
done in the act of warding oflf their ignominious public blow, 
seemed the one only congenial sequel to such a desperate 
career. 


III. 

As a statue, planted on a revolving pedestal, shows now this 
limb, now that ; now front, now back, now side ; continually 
changing, too, its general profile ; so does the pivoted, statued 
soul of man, when turned by the hand of Truth. Lies only 
never vary; look for no invariableness in Pierre. Nor doe> 


460 


PIERRE. 


any canting showman here stand by to announce his phases as 
he revolves. Catch his phases as your insight may. 

Another day passed on ; Glen and Frederic still absenting 
themselves, and Pierre and Isabel and Lucy all dwelling to- 
gether. The domestic presence of Lucy had begun to produce 
a remarkable effect upon Pierre. Sometimes, to the covertly 
watchful eye of Isabel, he would seem to look upon Lucy with 
an expression illy befitting their singular and so-supposed mere- 
ly cousinly relation ; and yet again, with another expression 
still more unaccountable to her, — one of fear and awe, not un- 
mixed wth impatience, But his general detailed manner to- 
ward Lucy was that of the most delicate and affectionate con- 
siderateness— nothing more. He was never alone with her ; 
though, as before, at times alone with Isabel. 

Lucy seemed entirely undesirous of usurping any place about 
him ; manifested no slightest unwelcome curiosity as to Pierre, 
and no painful embarrassment as to Isabel. Nevertheless, more 
and more did she seem, hour by hour, to be somehow inex- 
plicably sliding between them, without touching them. Pierre 
felt that some strange heavenly influence was near him, to keep 
him from some uttermost harm ; Isabel was alive to some 
untraceable displacing agency. Though when all three were 
together, the marvelous serenity, and sweetness, and utter un- 
suspectingness of Lucy obviated any thing like a common em- 
barrassment : yet if there was any embarrassment at all beneath 
that roof, it was sometimes when Pierre was alone with Isabel, 
after Lucy would innocently quit them. 

Meantime Pierre was still going on with his book ; every 
moment becoming still the more sensible of the intensely inaus- 
picious circumstances of all sorts under which that labor was 
proceeding. And as the now advancing and concentring en- 
terprise demanded more and more compacted vigor from him, 
he felt that he was having less and less to bring to it. For not 
only was it the signal misery of Pierre, to be invisibly — though 


PIERRE. 


461 


but accidciitally — ^goaded, in the hour of mental immaturity, to 
the attempt at a mature work, — a circumstance suflSciently la- 
mentable in itself ; but also, in the hour of his clamorous pen- 
nilessness, he was additionally goaded into an enterprise long 
and protracted in the execution, and of all things least calcu- 
lated for pecuniary profit in the end. How these things were 
so, whence they originated, might be thoroughly and very ben- 
eficially explained ; but space and time here forbid. 

At length, domestic matters — rent and bread — had come to 
such a pass with him, that -whether or no, the first pages must 
go to the printer ; and thus was added still another tribulation ; 
because the printed pages now dictated to the following manu- 
script, and said to all subsequent thoughts and inventions of 
Pierre — Thus and thus ; so and so ; else an ill match. There- 
fore, was his book already limited, bound over, and committed 
to imperfection, even before it had come to any confirmed form 
or conclusion at all. Oh, who shall reveal the horrors of poverty 
in authorship that is high ? While the silly Millthorpe was 
railing against his delay of a few weeks and months ; how bit- 
terly did unreplying Pierre feel in his heart, that to most of the 
great works of humanity, their authors had given, not weeks 
and months, not years and years, but their wholly surrendered 
and dedicated lives. On either hand clung to by a girl who 
would have laid down her life for him ; Pierre, nevertheless, in 
his deepest, highest part, was utterly without sympathy from 
any thing divine, human, brute, or vegetable. One in a city of 
hundreds of thousands of human beings, Pierre was solitary as 
at the Pole. 

And the great woe of all was this : that all these things 
were unsuspected without, and undivulgible from within ; the 
very daggers that stabbed him were joked at by Imbecility, 
Ignorance, Blockheadedness, Self-Complacency, and the univer- 
sal Blearedness and Besottedness around him. Now he began 
to feel that in him, the thews of a Titan were forestallingly cut 


462 


PIERRE. 


by the scissors of Fate. He felt as a moose, hamstrung. All 
things that think, or move, or lie still, seemed as created to 
mock and torment him. He seemed gifted with loftiness, 
merely that it might be dragged down to the mud. Still, the 
profound willfulness in him would not give up. Against the 
breaking heart, and the bursting head ; against all the dismal 
lassitude, and deathful faintness and sleeplessness, and whirling- 
ness, and craziness, still he like a demigod bore up. His soul’s 
ship foresaw the inevitable rocks, but resolved to sail on, and 
make a courageous wreck. Now he gave jeer for jeer, and 
taunted the apes that jibed him. With the soul of an Atheist, 
he wrote down the godliest things ; with the feeling of misery 
and death in him, he created forms of gladness and life. For 
the pangs in his heart, he put down hoots on the paper. And 
every thing else he disguised under the so conveniently adjus- 
table drapery of all-stretchable Philosophy. For the more and 
the more that he wrote, and the deeper and the deeper that he 
dived, Pierre saw the everlasting elusiveness of Truth ; the uni- 
versal lurking insincerity of even the greatest and purest writ- 
ten thoughts. Like knavish cards, the leaves of all great 
books were covertly packed. He was but packing one set the 
more ; and that a very poor jaded set and pack indeed. So 
that there was nothing he more spurned, than his own aspira- 
tions ; nothing he more abhorred than the loftiest part of him- 
self. The brightest success, now seemed intolerable to him, 
since he so plainly saw, that the brightest success could not be 
the sole offspring of Merit ; but of Merit for the one thousandth 
part, and nine hundred and ninety-nine combining and dove- 
tailing accidents for the rest. So beforehand he despised those 
laurels which in the very nature of things, can never be im- 
partially bestowed. But while thus all the earth was depopu- 
lated of ambition for him ; still circumstances had put him in 
the attitude of an eager contender for renown. So beforehand 
he felt the unrevealable sting of receiving either plaudits or 


PIERRE. 


463 


censures, equally unsought for, and equally loathed ere given. 
So, beforehand he felt the pyramidical scorn of the genuine 
loftiness for the whole infinite company of infinitesimal critics. 
His was the scorn which thinks it not worth the while to be 
scornful. Those he most scorned, never knew it. In that 
lonely little closet of his, Pierre foretasted all that this world 
hath either of praise or dispraise; and thus foretasting both 
goblets, anticipatingly hurled them both in its teeth. All pan- 
egyric, all denunciation, all criticism of any sort, would come 
too late for Pierre. 

But man does never give himself up thus, a doorless and 
shutterless house for the four loosened winds of heaven to howl 
through, without still additional dilapidations. Much oftener 
than before, Pierre laid back in his chair with the deadly feel- 
ing of faintness. Much oftener than before, came staggejing 
home from his evening walk, and from sheer bodily exhaustion 
economized the breath that answered the anxious inquiries as to 
what might be done for him. And as if all the leagued spirit- 
ual inveteracies and malices, combined with his general bodily 
exhaustion, were not enough, a special corporeal affliction now 
descended like a sky-hawk upon him. His incessant applica- 
tion told upon his eyes. They became so affected, that some 
days he wrote with the lids nearly closed, fearful of opening 
them wide to the light. Through the lashes he peered upon 
the paper, which so seemed fretted with wires. Sometimes he 
blindly wrote with his eyes turned away from the paper ; — thus 
unconsciously symbolizing the hostile necessity and distaste, 
the former whereof made of him this most unwilling states- 
prisoner of letters. 

As every evening, after his day’s writing was done,, the 
proofs of the beginning of his work came home for correction, 
Isabel would read them to him. They were replete with er- 
rors ; but preoccupied . by the thronging, and undiluted, 'pure 
imaginings of things, he became impatient of such minute. 


464 


PIERRE. 


gnat-like torments ; he randomly corrected the woi-st, and let 
the rest go ; jeering with himself at the rich harvest thus fur- 
nished to the entomological critics. 

But at last he received a tremendous interior intimation, to 
hold off — to be still from his unnatural struggle. 

In the earlier progi’ess of his book, he had found some relief 
in making his regular evening walk through the greatest thor- 
oughfare of the city ; that so, the utter isolation of his soul, 
might feel itself the more intensely from the incessant jogglings 
of his body against the bodies of the huriying thousands. 
Then he began to be sensible of more fancying stormy nights, 
than pleasant ones ; for then, the great thoroughfares were less 
thronged, and the innumerable shop-awnings flapped and beat 
like schoonei-s’ broad sails in a gale, and the shutters banged 
like lashed bulwarks ; and the slates fell hurtling like displaced 
ship’s blocks fi’om aloft. Stemming such tempests through the 
deserted streets, Pierre felt a dark, triumphant joy ; that while 
others had crawled in fear to their kennels, he alone defied the 
storm-admiral, whose most vindictive peltings of hail-stones, — 
striking his iron-framed fiery furnace of a body, — melted into 
soft dew, and so, harmlessly trickled from off him. 

By-and-by, of such howling, pelting nights, he began to bend 
his steps down the dark, narrow side-streets, in quest of the 
more secluded and mysterious tap-rooms. There he would feel 
a singular satisfaction, in sitting down all dripping in a chair, 
ordering his half-pint of ale before him, and drawing over his 
cap to protect his eyes from the light, eye the varied faces of 
the social castaways, who here had their haunts from the bitter- 
est midnights. 

But at last he began to feel a distaste for even these ; and 
now nothing but the utter night-desolation of the obscurest 
warehousing lanes would content him, or be at all sufferable to 
him. Among these he had now been accustomed to wind in 
and out every evening ; till one night as he paused a moment 


PIERRE. 


465 


previous to turning about for borne, a sudden, unwonted, and 
all-pervading sensation seized him. He knew not where he 
was ; he did not have any ordinary life-feeling at all. He 
could not see ; though instinctively putting his hand to his eyes, 
he seemed to feel that the lids were open. Then he was sen- 
sible of a combined blindness, and vertigo, and staggering ; be- 
fore his eyes a million green meteors danced ; he felt his foot 
tottering upon the curb, he put out his hands, and knew no 
more for the time. When he came to himself he found that 
he was lying crosswise in the gutter, dabbled with mud and 
slime. He raised himself to try if he could stand ; but the 
fit was entirely gone. Immediately he quickened his steps 
homeward, forbearing to rest or pause at all on the way, lest 
that rush of blood to his head, consequent upon his sudden 
cessation from walking, should again smite him down. This 
circumstance warned him away from those desolate streets, lest 
the repetition of the fit should leave him there to perish by 
night in unknown and unsuspected loneliness. But if that ter- 
rible vertigo had been also intended for another and deeper 
warning, he regarded such added warning not at all ; but again 
plied heart and brain as before. 

But now at last since the very blood in his body had in vain 
rebelled against his Titanic soul ; now the only visible outward 
symbols of that soul — ^his eyes — did also turn downright trai- 
tors to him, and with more success than the rebellious blood. 
He had abused them so recklessly, that now they absolutely 
refused to look on paper. He turned them on paper, and 
they blinked and shut. The pupils of his eyes rolled away 
from him in their own orbits. He put his hand up to them, 
and sat back in his seat. Then, without saying one word, 
he continued there for his usual term, suspended, motionless, 
blank. 

But next morning — ^it was some few days after the arrival 
of Lucy-still feeling that a certain downright infatuation, and 

u* 


466 


PIERRE. 


no less, is both unavoidable and indispensable in the composi- 
tion of any great, deep book, or even any wholly unsuccessful 
attempt at any great, deep book ; next morning he returned 
to the charge. But again the pupils of his eyes rolled away 
from him in their orbits : and now a general and nameless 
torpor — some horrible foretaste of death itself — ^seemed stealing 
upon him. 


lY. 

DuRiNa this state of semi-unconsciousness, or rather trance, 
a remarkable dream or vision came to him. The actual arti- 
ficial objects around him slid from him, and were replaced by 
a baseless yet most imposing spectacle of natural scenery. But 
though a baseless vision in itself, this auy spectacle assumed 
very familiar features to Pierre. It was the phantasmagoria of 
the Mount of the Titans, a singular height standing quite de- 
tached in a wide solitude not far from the grand range of dark 
blue hills encircling his ancestral manor. 

Say what some poets will. Nature is not so much her own 
ever-sweet interpreter, as the mere supplier of that cunning 
alphabet, whereby selecting and combining as he pleases, each 
man reads his own peculiar lesson according to his own pecu- 
liar mind and mood. Thus a high-aspiring, but most moody, 
disappointed bard, chancing once to visit the Meadows and be- 
holding that fine eminence, christened it by the name it ever 
after bore ; completely extinguishing its former title — The De- 
lectable Mountain — one long ago bestowed by an old Baptist 
farmer, an hereditary admirer of Bunyan and his most marvel- 
ous book. From the spell of that name the mountain never 
afterward escaped ; for now, gazing upon it by the light of 
those suggestive syllables, no poetical observer could resist th« 


PIERRE. 


467 


apparent felicity of the title. For as if indeed the immemorial 
mount would fain adapt itself to its so recent name, some 
people said that it had insensibly changed its pervading aspect 
within a score or two of winters. Nor was this strange conceit 
entirely without foundation, seeing that the annual displace- 
ments of huge rocks and gigantic trees were continually modi- 
fying its whole front and general contour. 

On the north side, where it fronted the old Manor-house, 
some fifteen miles distant, the height, viewed fr’om the piazza 
of a soft haze-canopied summer’s noon, presented a long and 
beautiful, but not entirely inaccessible-looking purple precipice, 
some two thousand feet in air, and on each hand sideways 
sloping down to lofty terraces of pastures. 

Those hill-side pastures, be it said, were thickly sown with a 
small white amaranthine flower, which, being irreconcilably 
distasteful to the cattle, and wholly rejected by them, and yet, 
continually multiplying on every hand, did by no means con- 
tribute to the agricultural value of those elevated lands. In- 
somuch, that for this cause, the disheartened dairy tenants of 
that part of the Manor, had petitioned their lady-landlord for 
some abatement in their annual tribute of upland grasses, in 
the Juny-load ; rolls of butter in the October crock ; and steers 
and heifers on the October hoof; with turkeys in the Christmas 
sleigh. 

“The small white flower, it is our bane!” the imploring 
tenants cried. “ The aspii’ing amaranth, every year it climbs 
and adds new terraces to its sway I The immortal amaranth, 
it will not die, but last year’s flowers survive to this ! The 
terraced pastures grow glittering white, and in warm June still 
show like banks of snow: — fit token of the sterileness the 
amaranth begets 1 Then free us from the amaranth, good 
lady, or be pleased to abate our rent !” 

Now, on a somewhat nearer approach, the precipice did not 
belie its purple promise from the manorial piazza • that swe<^t 


468 


PIERRE. 


imposing purple promise, which seemed fully to vindicate the 
Bunyanish old title originally bestowed ; — but showed the pro- 
fuse aerial foliage of a hanging forest. Nevertheless, coming 
still more nigh, long and frequent rents among the mass of 
leaves revealed horrible glimpses of dark-dripping rocks, and 
mysterious mouths of wolfish caves. * Struck by this most un- 
anticipated view, the tourist now quickened his impulsive steps 
to verify the change by coming into direct contact with so 
chameleon a height. As he would now speed on, the lower 
ground, which from the manor-house piazza seemed all a grassy 
level, suddenly merged into a very long and weary acclivity, 
slowly rising close up to the precipice’s base; so that the 
efflorescent grasses rippled against it, as the efflorescent waves 
of some great swell or long rolling billow ripple against the 
water-line of a steep gigantic war-ship on the sea. And, as 
among the rolling sea-like sands of Egypt, disordered rows of 
broken Sphinxes lead to the Cheopian pyramid itself ; so this 
long acclivity was thickly strewn with enormous rocky masses, 
grotesque in shape, and with wonderful features on them, 
which seemed to express that slumbering intelligence visible in 
some recumbent beasts — beasts whose intelligence seems struck 
dumb in them by some sorrowful and inexplicable spell. 
Nevertheless, round and round those still enchanted rocks, 
hard by their utmost rims, and in among their cunning crev- 
ices, the misanthropic hill-scaling goat nibbled his sweetest 
food ; for the rocks, so barren in themselves, distilled a subtile 
moisture, which fed with greenness all things that grew about 
their igneous marge. 

Quitting those recumbent rocks, you still ascended toward the 
hanging forest, and piercing within its lowermost fringe, then 
suddenly you stood transfixed, as a marching soldier confounded 
at the sight of an impregnable redoubt, where he had fancied 
it a practicable vault to his courageous thews. Cunningly 
masked hitherto, by the green tapestry of the interlacing leaves, 


PIERRE. 


469 


a tenific towering palisade of dark mossy massiness confronted 
you ; and, trickling with unevaporable moisture, distilled upon 
you from its beetling brow slow thunder-showers of water- 
drops, chill as the last dews of death. Now you stood and 
shivered in that twilight, though it were high noon and burn- 
ing August down the meads. All round and round, the grim 
scarred rocks rallied and re-rallied themselves ; shot up, pro- 
truded, stretched, swelled, and eagerly reached forth ; on every 
side bristlingly radiating with a hideous repellingness. Tossed, 
and piled, and indiscriminate among these, like bridging rifts 
of logs up-jammed in alluvial-rushing streams of far Arkansas : 
or, like great masts and yards of overwhelmed fleets hurled 
high and dashed amain, all splintering together, on hovering 
ridges of the Atlantic sea, — ^you saw the melancholy trophies 
which the North Wind, championing the unquenchable quarrel 
of the Winter, had wrested from the forests, and dismembered 
them on their own chosen battle-ground, in barbarous disdain. 
’Mid this spectacle of wide and wanton spoil, insular noises of 
falling rocks would boomingly explode upon the silence and 
fright all the echoes, which ran shrieking in and out among the 
caves, as wailing women and children in some assaulted town. 

Stark desolation ; ruin, merciless and ceaseless ; chills and 
gloom, — all here lived a hidden life, curtained by that cunning 
purpleness, which, from the piazza of the manor house, so beau- 
tifully invested the mountain once called Delectable, but now 
styled Titanic. 

Beaten off by such undreamed-of glooms and steeps, you 
now sadly retraced your steps, and, mayhap, went skirting the 
inferior sideway terraces of pastures ; where the multiple and 
most sterile inodorous immortalness of the small, white flower 
furnished no aliment for the mild cow’s meditative cud. But 
here and there you still might smell from far the sweet aromat- 
icness of clumps of catnip, that dear farm-house herb. Soon 
you would see the modest verdure of the plant itself; and 


470 


PIERRE. 


wheresoever you saw that sight, old foundation stones and rot- 
ting timbers of log-houses long extinct would also meet your 
eye ; their desolation illy hid by the green solicitudes of the un- 
emigrating herb. Most fitly named the catnip ; since, like the 
unrunagate cat, though all that’s human foreake the place, that 
plant will long abide, long bask and bloom on the abandoned 
hearth. Illy hid ; for every spring the amaranthine and celes- 
tial flower gained on the mortal household herb; for every 
autumn the catnip died, but never an autumn made the ama- 
ranth to wane. The catnip and the amaranth ! — man’s earthly 
household peace, and the ever-encroaching appetite for God. 

No more now you sideways followed the sad pasture’s skirt, 
but took your way adown the long declivity, fronting the mystic 
height. In mid field again you paused among the recumbent 
sphinx-like shapes thrown off from the rocky steep. You 
paused ; fixed by a form defiant, a form of awfulness. You 
saw Enceladus the Titan, the most potent of all the giants, 
writhing from out the imprisoning earth ; — turbaned with up- 
born moss he writhed ; still, though armless, resisting with his 
whole striving trunk, the Pelion and the Ossa hurled back at 
him ; — turbaned with upborn moss he writhed ; still turning 
his unconquerable front toward that majestic mount eternally 
in vain assailed by him, and which, when it had stormed him 
off, had heaved his undoffable incubus upon him, and deriding- 
ly left him there to bay out his ineffectual howl. 

To Pierre this wondrous shape had always been a thing of 
interest, though hitherto all its latent significance had never 
fully and intelligibly smitten him. In his earlier boyhood a 
strolling company of young collegian pedestrians had chanced 
to light upon the rock ; and, struck with its remarkableness, had 
brought a score of picks and spades, and dug round it to unearth 
it, and find whether indeed it were a demoniac freak of nature, 
or some stern thing of antediluvian art. Accompanying this 
eager party, Pierre first beheld that deathless son of Terra, At 


V 


PIERRE. 471 

that time, in its untouched natural state, the statue presented 
nothing but the turhaned head of igneous rock rising from out 
the soil, with its unabasable face turned upward toward the 
mountain, and the bull-like neck clearly defined. With dis- 
torted features, scarred and broken, and a black brow mocked 
by the upborn moss, Enceladus there subterraneously stood, 
fast frozen into the earth at the junction of the neck. Spades 
and picks soon heaved part of his Ossa from him, till at last a 
circular well was opened round him to the depth of some thir- 
teen feet. At that point the wearied young collegians gave over 
their enterprise in despair. With all their toil, they had not 
yet come to the girdle of Enceladus. But they had bared good 
part of his mighty chest, and exposed his mutilated shoulders, 
and the stumps of his once audacious arms. Thus far uncov- 
ering his shame, in that cruel plight they had abandoned him, 
leaving stark naked his in vain indignant chest to the defile- 
ments of the birds, which for untold ages had cast their foul- 
ness on his vanquished crest. 

Not unworthy to be compared vvath that leaden Titan, 
wherewith the art of Marsy and the broad-flung pride of Bour- 
bon enriched the enchanted gardens of Versailles ; — and from 
whose still twisted mouth for sixty feet the waters yet upgush, 
in elemental rivalry with those Etna flames, of old asserted to 
be the malicious breath of the borne-down giant ; — not unwor- 
thy to be compared with that leaden demi-god — piled with 
costly rocks, and with one bent wrenching knee protruding 
from the broken bronze ; — not unworthy to be compared with 
that bold trophy of high art, this American Enceladus, wrought 
by the vigorous hand of Nature’s self, it did go further than 
compare ; — it did far surpass that fine figure molded by the 
inferior skill of man. Marsy gave arms to the eternally de- 
fenseless ; but Nature, more truthful, performed an amputation, 
and left the impotent Titan without one serviceable ball-and- 
socket above the thigh. 


472 


PI E RE E. 


Such was the wild scenery — the Mount of Titans, and the 
repulsed group of heaven-assaulters, with Enceladus in their 
midst shamefully recumbent at its base ; — such was the wild 
scenery, which now to Pierre, in his strange vision, displaced 
the four blank walls, the desk, and camp-bed, and domineered 
upon his trance. But no longer petrified in all their igno- 
minious attitudes, the herded Titans now sprung to their feet ; 
flung themselves up the slope ; and anew battered at the preci- 
pice’s unresounding wall. Foremost among them all, he saw a 
moss-turbaned, armless giant, who despairing of any other 
mode of wreaking his immitigable hate, turned his vast trunk 
into a battering-ram, and hurled his own arched-out ribs again 
and yet again against the invulnerable steep. 

“ Enceladus ! it is Enceladus !” — Pierre cried out in his 
sleep. That moment the phantom faced him ; and Pierre saw 
Enceladus no more ; but on the Titan’s armless trunk, his own 
duplicate face and features magnifiedly gleamed upon him with 
prophetic discomfiture and woe. With trembling frame he 
started from his chair, and woke from that ideal horror to all 
his actual grief. 


Y. 

Nor did Pierre’s random knowledge of the ancient fables fail 
still further to elucidate the vision which so strangely had sup- 
plied a tongue to muteness. But that elucidation was most 
repulsively fateful and foreboding ; possibly because Pierre did 
not leap the final barrier of gloom ; possibly because Pierre did 
not willfully wrest some final comfort from the fable ; did not 
flog this stubborn rock as Moses his, and force even aridity it- 
self to quench his painful thirst 


PIERRE. 


473 


Thus smitten, the Mount of Titans seems to yield this follow 
ing stream : — 

Old Titan’s self was the son of incestuous Coelus and Terra, 
the son of incestuous Heaven and Earth. And Titan married 
his mother Terra, another and accumulatively incestuous match. 
And thereof Enceladus was one issue. So Enceladus was both 
the son and grandson of an incest ; and even thus, there had 
been born from the organic blended heavenliness and earthli- 
ness of Pierre, another mixed, uncertain, heaven-aspiring, but 
still not wholly earth-emancipated mood ; which again, by its 
terrestrial taint held down to its terrestrial mother, generated 
there the present doubly incestuous Enceladus within him ; so 
that the present mood of Pierre — that reckless sky-assaulting 
mood of his, was nevertheless on one side the grandson of the 
sky.* For it is according to eternal fitness, that the precipitated 
Titan should still seek to regain his paternal birthright even by 
fierce escalade. Wherefore whoso storms the sky gives best 
proof he came from thither ! But whatso crawls contented in 
the moat before that crystal fort, shows it was born within 
that slime, and there forever will abide. 

Recovered somewhat from the after-spell of this wild vision 
folded in his trance, Pierre composed his front as best he might, 
and straightway left his fatal closet. Concentrating all the re- 
maining stufi* in him, he resolved by an entire and violent 
change, and by a willful act against his own most habitual in- 
clinations, to wrestle with the strange malady of his eyes, this 
new death-fiend of the trance, and this Inferno of his Titanic 
vision. 

And now, just as he crossed the threshold of the closet, he 
writhingly strove to assume an expression intended to be not 
uncheerful — though how indeed his countenance at all looked, 
he could not tell ; for dreading some insupportably dark re- 
vealments in his glass, he had of late wholly abstained from 
appealing to it — and in his mind he rapidly conned over, what 


474 


PIERRE. 


indifferent, disguising, or light-hearted gamesome things he 
should say, when proposing to his companions the little design 
he cherished. 

And even so, to gi'im Enceladus, the world the gods had 
chained for a ball to drag at his o’erfreighted feet ; — even so 
that globe put forth a thousand flowers, whose fragile smiles 
disguised his ponderous load. 


BOOK XXVL 


A WALK: A FOREIGN PORTRAIT: A SAIL: AND THE END. 


I. 

“ Come, Isabel, come, Lucy ; we have not bad a single walk 
together yet. It is cold, but clear ; and once out of the city, 
we shall find it sunny. Come : get ready now, and away for a 
stroll down to the wharf, and then for some of the steamers on 
the bay. No doubt, Lucy, you will find in the bay scenery 
some hints for that secret sketch you are so busily occupied with 
— ere real living sitters do come — and which you so devotedly 
work at, all alone and behind closed doors.” 

Upon this, Lucy’s original look of pale-rippling pleasantness 
and surprise — evoked by Pierre’s unforeseen proposition to give 
himself some relaxation — changed into one of infinite, mute, 
but unrenderable meaning, while her swimming eyes gently 
yet all-bewildered, fell to the floor. 

“ It is finished, then,” cried Isabel, — not unmindful of this 
by-scene, and passionately stepping forward so as to intercept 
Pierre’s momentary rapt glance at the agitated Lucy, — “ That 
vile book, it is finished ! — Thank Heaven !” 

“ Not so,” said Pierre ; and, displacing all disguisements, a 
hectic unsummoned expression suddenly came to his face ; — 
“ but ere that vile book be finished, I must get on some other 
element than earth. I have sat on earth’s saddle till I am weary ; 
I must now vault over to the other saddle awhile. Oh, seems 


476 


PIERRE. 


to me, there should be two ceaseless steeds for a bold man to 
ride, — the Land and the Sea ; and like circus-men we should 
never dismount, but only be steadied and rested by leaping 
from one to the other, while still, side by side, they both race 
round the sun, I have been on the Land steed so long, oh I 
am dizzy !” 

“ Thou wilt never listen to me, Pierre,” said Lucy lowly ; 
“ there is no need of this incessant straining. See, Isabel and I 
have both offered to be thy amanuenses ; — ^not in mere copying, 
but in the original writing ; I am sure that would greatly assist 
thee.” 

“ Impossible ! I fight a duel in which all seconds are forbid.” 

“ Ah Pierre ! Pierre !” cried Lucy, dropping the shawl in her 
hand, and gazing at him with unspeakable longings of some 
unfathomable emotion. 

Namelessly glancing at Lucy, Isabel slid near to him, seized 
his hand and spoke. 

“ I would go blind for thee, Pierre ; here, take out these eyes, 
and use them for glasses.” So saying, she looked "with a 
strange momentary haughtiness and defiance at Lucy. 

A general half involuntary movement was now made, as if 
they were about to depart. 

“Ye are ready ; go ye before” — said Lucy meekly ; “ I will 
follow.” 

“ Nay, one on each arm” — said Pierre — “ come !” 

As they passed through the low arched vestibule into the 
street, a cheek-burnt, gamesome sailor passing, exclaimed — 
“ Steer small, my lad; ’tis a narrow strait thou art in !” 

“ What says he ?” — said Lucy gently. “ Yes, it is a narrow 
strait of a street indeed.” 

But Pierre felt a sudden tremble transferred to him from 
Isabel, who whispered something inarticulate in his ear. 

Gaining one of the thoroughfares, they drew near to a con- 
spicuous placard over a door, announcing that above stairs was 


PIERRE. 


477 


a gallery of paintings, recently imported from Europe, and now 
on free exhibition preparatory to their sale by auction. Though 
this encounter had been entirely unforeseen by Pierre, yet yield- 
ing to the sudden impulse, he at once proposed their visiting the 
pictures. The girls assented, and they ascended the stabs. 

In the anteroom, a catalogue was put into his hand. He 
paused^to give one hurried, comprehensive glance at it. Among 
long columns of such names as Rubens, Raphael, Angelo, Do- 
menichino. Da Vinci, all shamelessly prefaced with the words 
‘‘ undoubted,” or “ testified,” Pierre met the following brief 
line : — “ No. 99. A stranger's head^ hy an unknown hand." 

It seemed plain that the whole must be a collection of those 
wretched imported daubs, which with the incredible efifrontery 
peculiar to some of the foreign picture-dealei-s in America, were 
christened by the loftiest names known to Art. But as the 
most mutilated torsoes of the perfections of antiquity are not 
unworthy the student’s attention, neither are the most bungling 
modern incompletenesses : for both are torsoes ; one of per- 
ished perfections in the past ; the other, by anticipation, of yet 
unfulfilled perfections in the future. Still, as Pierre walked 
along by the thickly hung walls, and seemed to detect the in- 
fatuated vanity which must have prompted many of these 
utterly unknown artists in the attempted execution by feeble 
hand of vigorous themes ; he could not repress the most mel- 
ancholy foreboding concerning himself. All the walls of the 
world seemed thickly hung with the empty and impotent scope 
of pictures, grandly outlined, but miserably filled. The smaller 
and humbler pictures, representing little familiar things, were 
by far the best executed ; but these, though touching him not 
unpleasingly, in one restricted sense, awoke no dormant majes- 
ties in his soul, and therefore, upon the whole, were contempti- 
bly inadequate and unsatisfactory. 

At last Pierre and Isabel came to that painting of which 
Pien-e was capriciously in search— No. 99. 


478 


PIERRE. 


“My God! seel see!” cried Isabel, under strong excitement, 
“ only my mirror has ever shown me that look before ! See ! 
see !” 

By some mere hocus-pocus of chance, or subtly designing 
knavery, a real Italian gem of art had found its way into this 
most hybrid collection of impostures. 

No one who has passed through the great galleries of Europe, 
unbewildered by their wonderful multitudinousness of surpass- 
ing excellence — a redundancy which neutralizes all discrimina- 
tion or individualizing capacity in most ordinary minds — no 
calm, penetrative person can have victoriously run that painted 
gauntlet of the gods, without certain very special emotions, 
called forth by some one or more individual paintings, to which, 
however, both the catalogues and the criticisms of the greatest 
connoisseurs deny any all-transcending merit, at all answering 
to the effect thus casually produced. There is no time now to 
show fully how this is ; suffice it, that in such instances, it is 
not the abstract excellence always, but often the accidental con- 
geniality, which occasions this wonderful emotion. Still, the 
individual himself is apt to impute it to a different cause ; hence, 
the headlong enthusiastic admiration of some one or two men 
for things not at all praised by — or at most, which are indif- 
ferent to — the rest of the world ; — a matter so often considered 
inexplicable. 

But in this Stranger’s Head by the Unknown Hand, the ab- 
stract general excellence united with the all-surprising, accidental 
congeniality in producing an accumulated impression of power 
upon both Pierre and Isabel. Nor was the strangeness of this 
at all impaired by the apparent uninterestedness of Lucy con- 
cerning that very picture. Indeed, Lucy — who, owing to the 
occasional jolting of the crowd, had loosened her arm from 
Pierre’s, and so, gradually, had gone on along the pictured hall 
in advance — Lucy had thus passed the strange painting, with- 
out the least special pause, and hari now wandered round to the 


PIERRE. 


479 


precisely opposite side of the hall ; where, at this present time, 
she was standing motionless before a very tolerable copy (the 
only other good thing in the collection) of that sweetest, most 
touching, but most awful of all feminine heads — The Cenci of 
Guido. The wonderfulness of which head consists chiefly, per- 
haps, in a striking, suggested contrast, half-identical with, and 
half-analogous to, that almost supernatural one — sometimes vis- 
ible in the maidens of tropical nations — namely, soft and hght 
blue eyes, with an extremely fair complexion, vailed by fune- 
really jetty hair. But with blue eyes and fair complexion, the 
Cenci’s hair is golden — physically, therefore, all is in strict, nat- 
ural keeping ; which, nevertheless, still the more intensifies the 
suggested fanciful anomaly of so sweetly and seraphically blonde 
a being, being double-hooded, as it were, by the black crape of 
the two most horrible crimes (of one of which she is the object, 
and of the other the agent) possible to civilized humanity — in- 
cest and parricide. 

Now, this Cenci and “ the Stranger” were hung at a good ele- 
vation in one of the upper tiers ; and, from the opposite walls, 
exactly faced each other ; so that in secret they seemed pan- 
tomimically talking over and across the heads of the living spec- 
tators below. 

With the aspect of the Cenci eveiy one is familial*. “ The 
Stranger” was a dark, comely, youthful man’s head, portentous- 
ly looking out of a dark, shaded ground, and ambiguously smil- 
ing. There was no discoverable drapery ; the dark head, with 
its crisp, curly, jetty hair, seemed just disentangling itself from 
out of curtains and clouds. But to Isabel, in the eye and on 
the brow, were certain shadowy traces of her own unmistakable 
likeness ; while to Pierre, this face was in part as the resurrec- 
tion of the one he had burnt at the Inn. Not that the sepa- 
rate features were the same ; but the pervading look of it, 
the subtler interior keeping of the entirety, was almost iden- 
tical ; still, for all this, there was an unequivocal aspect of for- 


480 


P IE KRE. 


eignness, of Europeanism, about both the face itself and the 
general painting. 

“ Is it ? Is it ? Can it be ?” whispered Isabel, intensely. 

Now, Isabel knew nothing of the painting which Pierre had 
destroyed. But she solely referred to the living being who — 
under the designation of her father — had visited her at the cheer- 
ful house to which she had been removed during childhood 
from the large and unnamable one by the pleasant woman in 
the coach. Without doubt — ^though indeed she might not have 
been at all conscious of it in her own mystic mind — she must 
have somehow vaguely fancied, that this being had always 
through life worn the same aspect to every body else which he 
had to her, for so very brief an interval of his possible exist- 
ence. Solely knowing him — or dreaming of him, it may have 
been — under that one aspect, she could not conceive of him 
under any other. Whether or not these considerations touch- 
ing Isabel’s ideas occurred to Pierre at this moment is very im- 
probable. At any rate, he said nothing to her, either to de- 
ceive or undeceive, either to enlighten or obscure. For, indeed, 
he was too much riveted by his own far-interior emotions to 
analyze now the cotemporary ones of Isabel. So that there here 
came to pass a not unremarkable thing : for though both were 
intensely excited by one object, yet their two minds and memo- 
ries were thereby directed to entirely different contemplations ; 
while still each, for the time — ^however unreasonably — might 
have vaguely supposed the other occupied by one and the same 
contemplation. Pierre was thinking of the chair-portrait : Isa- 
bel, of the living face. Yet Isabel’s fervid exclamations having 
reference to the living face, were now, as it were, mechanically 
responded to by Pierre, in syllables having reference to the 
chair-portrait. Nevertheless, so subtile and spontaneous was it 
all, that neither perhaps ever afterward discovered this contra- 
diction ; for, events whirled them so rapidly and peremptorily 


PIERRE. 


481 ‘ 


after this, that they had no time for those calm retrospective 
reveries indispensable perhaps to such a discovery. 

“ Is it ? is it ? can it be was the intense whisper of Isabel. 

“ No, it can not be, it is not,” replied Pierre ; “ one of the 
wonderful coincidences, nothing more.” 

“ Oh, by that word, Pierre, we but vainly seek to explain 
the inexplicable. Tell me : it is ! it must be ! it is wonderful !” 

“ Let us begone ; and let us keep eternal silence,” said 
Pierre, quickly; and, seeking Lucy, they abruptly left the 
place ; as before, Pierre, seemingly unwilling to be accosted by 
any one he knew, or who knew his companions, unconsciously 
accelerating their steps while forced for a space to tread the 
thoroughfares. 


II. 

As they hurried on, Pierre was silent ; but wild thoughts were 
hurrying and shouting in his heart. The most tremendous dis- 
placing and revolutionizing thoughts were upheaving in him, 
with reference to Isabel; nor — though at the time he was 
hardly conscious of such a thing — ^were these thoughts wholly 
unwelcome to him. 

How did he know that Isabel was his sister ? Setting aside 
Aunt Dorothea’s nebulous legend, to which, in some shadowy 
points, here and there Isabel’s still more nebulous story seemed 
to fit on, — ^though but uncertainly enough — and both of which 
thus blurredly conjoining narrations, regarded in the unscrupu- 
lous light of real naked reason, were any thing but legitimately 
conclusive ; and setting aside his own dim reminiscences of his 
wandering father’s death-bed ; (for though, in one point of 
view, those reminiscences might have afforded some degree of 
presumption as to his father’s having been the parent of an un- 

X 


482 


PIEKBE. 


acknowledged daughter, yet were they entirely inconclusive as 
to that presumed daughter’s identity ; and the gi’and point now 
with Pierre was, not the general question whether his father 
had had a daughter, but whether, assuming that he had had, 
Isabel^ rather than any other living being, was that daughter ;) 
— and setting aside all his own manifold and inter-enfolding mys- 
tic and transcendental pei’suasions, — originally born, as he now 
seemed to feel, purely of an intense procreative enthusiasm 
an enthusiasm no longer so all-potential with him as of yore ; 
setting all these aside, and coming to the plain, palpable facts, — 
how did he know that Isabel was his sister ? Nothing that he 
saw in her face could he remember as having seen in his fa- 
ther’s. The chair-portrait, that was the entire sum and sub- 
stance of all possible, rakable, downright presumptive evidence, 
which peculiarly appealed to his own separate self. Yet here 
was another portrait of a complete stranger — -a European ; a 
portrait imported from across the seas, and to be sold at public 
auction, which was just as strong an evidence as the other. 
Then, the original of this second portrait was as much the fa- 
ther of Isabel as the original of the chair-portrait. But perhaps 
there was no original at all to this second portrait ; it might 
have been a pure fancy piece ; to which conceit, indeed, the 
uncharacterizing style of the filling-up seemed to furnish no 
small testimony. 

With such bewildering meditations as these in him, running 
up like clasping waves upon the strand of the most latent se- 
crecies of his soul, and with both Isabel and Lucy bodily touch- 
ing his sides as he walked ; the feelings of Pierre were entirely 
untranslatable into any words that can be used. 

Of late to Pierre, much more vividly than ever before, the 
whole story of Isabel had seemed an enigma, a mystery, an 
imaginative delirium ; especially since he had got so dee^ into 
the inventional mysteries of his book. For he who is most 
practically and deeply conversant "with mysticisms an<J mys- 


PIERRE. 


488 


teries ; he who professionally deals in mysticisms and mysteries 
himself; often that man, more than any body else, is disposed 
to regard such things in others as very deceptively bejuggling ; 
and likewise is apt to be rather materialistic in all his own 
merely personal notions (as in their practical lives, with priests 
of Eleusinian religions), and more than any other man, is often 
inclined, at the bottom of his soul, to be uncompromisingly 
skeptical on all novel visionary hypotheses of any kind. It is 
only the no-mystics, or the half-mystics, who, properly speak- 
ing, are credulous. So that in Pierre, was presented the ap- 
pai’ent anomaly of a mind, which by becoming really profound 
in itself, grew skeptical of all tendered profundities ; whereas, 
the contrary is generally supposed. 

By some strange arts Isabel’s wonderful story might have 
been, someway, and for some cause, forged for her, in her child- 
hood, and craftily impressed upon her youthful mind ; which 
so — like a slight mark in a young tree — had now enlargingly 
grown with her growth, till it had become this immense staring 
marvel. Tested by any thing real, practical, and reasonable, 
what less probable, for instance, than that fancied crossing of 
the sea in her childhood, when upon Pierre’s subsequent ques- 
tioning of her, she did not even know that the sea was salt. 


III. 

In the midst of all these mental confusions they arrived at 
the wharf; and selecting the most inviting of the various boats 
which lay about them in three or four adjacent ferry-slips, and 
one which was bound for a half-hour’s sail across the wide 
beauty of that glorious bay ; they soon found themselves afloat 
and in swift gliding motion. 

They stood leaning on the rail of the guard, as the sharp 


484 


PIERRE. 


craft darted out from among the lofty pine-forests of ships’- 
masts, and the tangled underbrush and cane-brakes of the 
dwarfed sticks of sloops and scows. Soon, the spires of stone 
on the land, blent with the masts of wood on the water ; the 
crotch of the twin-rivers pressed the great wedged city almost 
out of sight. They swept by two httle islets distant from the 
shore ; they wholly curved away from the domes of free-stone 
and marble, and gained the great sublime dome of the bay’s 
wide-open waters. 

Small breeze had been felt in the pent city that day, but the 
fair breeze of naked nature now blew in their faces. The 
waves began to gather and roll ; and just as they gained a 
point, where — still beyond — ^between high promontories of 
fortresses, the wide bay visibly sluiced into the Atlantic, Isabel 
convulsively grasped the arm of Pierre and convulsively spoke. 

“I feel it! I feel it! It is! It is!” 

“ What feelest thou ? — ^what is it 

“ The motion ! the motion !” 

“Dost thou not understand, Pierre ?” said Lucy, eying with 
concern and wonder his pale, staring aspect — “ The waves : it is 
the motion of the waves that Isabel speaks of. Look, they are 
rolling, direct from the sea now.” 

Again Pierre lapsed into a still stranger silence and revery. 

It was impossible altogether to resist the force of this strik- 
ing corroboration of by far the most surprising and improbable 
thing in the whole surprising and improbable story of Isabel. 
Well did he remember her vague reminiscence of the teetering 
sea, that did not slope exactly as the floors of the unknown, 
abandoned, old house among the French-like mountains. 

While plunged in these mutually neutralizing thoughts of 
the strange picture and the last exclamations of Isabel, the boat 
anived at its destination — a little hamlet on the beach, not 
very far from the great blue sluice-way into the ocean, which 
was now yet more distinctly visible than before. 


PIERRE. 


485 


“ Don’t let ns stop here” — cried Isabel. “ Look, let ns go 
throngh there ! Bell mnst go throngh there ! See ! see ! ont 
there npon the bine ! yonder, yonder ! far away — ont, ont ! — 
far, far away, and away, and away, ont there ! where the two 
bines meet, and are nothing — ^Bell mnst go !” 

“ Why, Isabel,” mnrmnred Lncy, “ that wonld be to go to 
far England or France ; thon wonldst find bnt few friends in 
far France, Isabel.” 

“ Friends in far France ? And what friends have I here ? — 
Art thon my friend ? In thy secret heart dost thou wish me 
well ? And for thee, Pierre, what am I bnt a vile clog to thee ; 
dragging thee back from all thy felicity ? Yes, I will go yon- 
der — yonder ; ont there ! I will, I will ! Unhand me ! Let 
me plnnge !” 

For an instant, Lncy looked incoherently from one to the 
other. Bnt both she and Pierre now mechanically again 
seized Isabel’s frantic arms, as they were again thrown over the 
onter rail of the boat. They dragged her back ; they spoke to 
her ; they soothed her ; bnt thongh less vehement, Isabel still 
looked deeply distrnstfnlly at Lncy, and deeply reproachfully 
at Pierre. 

They did not leave the boat as intended ; too glad were 
they all, when it nnloosed from its fastenings, and turned abont 
npon the backward trip. 

Stepping to shore, Pierre once more hnrried his companions 
throngh the nnavoidable pnblicity of the thoronghfares ; but 
less rapidly proceeded, soon as they gained the more secluded 
streets. 


lY. 

Gaining the Apostles’, and leaving his two companions to 
the privacy of their chambers, PieiTe sat silent and intent 


486 


PIERRE. 


by the stove in the dining-room for a time, and then was on 
the point of entering his closet from the corridor, when Delly^ 
suddenly following him, said to him, that she had forgotten to 
mention it before, but he would find two letters in his room, 
which had been separately left at the door during the absence 
of the party. 

He passed into the closet, and slowly shooting the bolt — 
which, for want of something better, happened to be an old 
blunted dagger — walked, with his cap yet unmoved, slowly up 
to the table, and beheld the letters. They were lying with 
their sealed sides up ; one in either hand, he lifted them ; and 
held them straight out sideways from him. 

“ I see not the writing ; know not yet, by mine own eye, 
that they are meant for me ; yet, in these hands I feel that I 
now hold the final poniards that shall stab me; and by stab- 
bing me, make me too a most swift stabber in the recoil. 
Which point first ? — this !” 

He tore open the left-hand letter : — 

“ Sir : — ^You are a swindler. Upon the pretense of writing 
a popular novel for us, you have been receiving cash advances 
from us, while passing through our press the sheets of a blas- 
phemous rhapsody, filched from the vile Atheists, Lucian and 
Voltaire. Our great press of publication has hitherto prevented 
our slightest inspection of our reader’s proofs of your book. 
Send not another sheet to us. Our bill for printing thus far, 
and also for our cash advances, swindled out of us by you, is 
now in the hands of our lawyer, who is instructed to proceed 
with instant rigor. 

(Signed') Steel, Flint & Asbestos.” 

He folded the left-hand letter, and put it beneath his left 
heel, and stood upon it so ; and then opened the right-hand 
letter. 


. PIEEBE. 


487 


“ Thou, Pierre Glendinning, art a villainous and perjured liar. 
It is the sole object of this letter imprintedly to convey the 
point blank lie to thee ; that taken in at thy heart, it may be 
thence pulsed with thy blood, throughout thy system. We 
have let some interval pass inactive, to confirm and solidify our 
hate. Separately, and together, we brand thee, in thy every 
lung-cell, a liar ; — liar, because that is the scornfullest and loath- 
somest title for a man ; which in itself is the compend of all in- 
famous things. 

(^Signed) Glendinning Stanly, 

Frederic Tartan.” 

He folded the right-hand letter, and put it beneath his right 
heel ; then folding his two arms, stood upon both the letters. 

“ These are most small circumstances ; but happening just 
now to me, become indices to all immensities. For now am T 
hate-shod ! On these I will skate to my acquittal ! No longer 
do I hold terms with aught. World’s bread of life, and world’s 
breath of honor, both are snatched from me ; but I defy all 
world’s bread and breath. Here I step out before the drawn- 
up worlds in widest space, and challenge one and all of them to 
battle ! Oh, Glen ! oh, Fred ! most fraternally do I leap to 
your rib-crushing hugs ! Oh, how I love ye two, that yet can 
make me lively hate, in a world which elsewise only merits 
stagnant scorn ! — Now, then, where is this swindler’s, this coin- 
er’s book ? Here, on this vile counter, over which the coiner 
thought to pass it to the world, here will I nail it fast, for a 
detected cheat !' And thus nailed fast now, do I spit upon it, 
and so get the start of the wise world’s worst abuse of it ! Now 
I go out to meet my fate, walking toward me in the street.” 

As with hat on, and Glen and Frederic’s letter invisibly crum- 
pled in his hand, he — as it were somnambulously — passed into 
the room of Isabel, she gave loose to a thin, long shriek, at his 
wondrous white and haggard plight ; and then, without the 


488 


PIEERE. 


power to stir toward him, sat petrified in her chair, as one em- 
balmed and glazed with icy varnish. 

He heeded her not, but passed straight on through both in- 
tervening rooms, and without a knock unpremeditatedly entered 
Lucy’s chamber. He would have passed out of that, also, into 
the corridor, without one word ; but something stayed him. 

The marble girl sat before her easel ; a small box of pointed 
charcoal, and some pencils by her side ; her painter’s wand held 
out against the frame ; the charcoal-pencil suspended in two 
fingers, while with the same hand, holding a crust of bread, she 
was lightly brushing the portrait-paper, to efface some ill-con- 
sidered stroke. The floor was scattered with the bread-crumbs 
and charcoal-dust ; he looked behind the easel, and saw his 
own portrait, in the skeleton. 

At the first glimpse of him, Lucy started not, nor stirred ; 
but as if her own wand had there enchanted her, sat tranced. 

“ Dead embers of departed fires lie by thee, thou pale girl ; 
with dead embei-s thou seekest to relume the flame of all ex- 
tinguished love ! Waste not so that bread ; eat it — in bitter- 
ness !” 

He turned, and entered the corridor, and then, with out- 
stretched arms, paused between the two outer doors of Isabel 
and Lucy. 

“ For ye two, ray most undiluted prayer is now, that from 
your here unseen and frozen chairs ye may never stir alive ; — 
the fool of Truth, the fool of Virtue, the fool of Fate, now quits 
ye forever!” 

As he now sped down the long winding passage, some one 
eagerly hailed him from a stair. 

“ What, what, my boy ? where now in such a squally hurry ? 
Hallo, I say 1” 

But without heeding him at all, Pierre drove on. Millthorpe 
looked anxiously and alarmedly after him a moment, then mad 
a movement in pursuit, but paused again. 


PIERRE. 


489 


“ There was ever a black vein in this Glendinning ; and now 
that vein is swelled, as if it were just one peg above a tourne- 
quet drawn over-tight. I scarce durst dog him now ; yet my 
heart misgives me that I should. — Shall I go to his rooms and 
ask what black thing this is that hath befallen him ? — No ; not 
yet ; — might be thought officious — they say I’m given to that. 
I’ll wait ; something may turn up soon. I’ll into the front 
street, and saunter some ; and then — ^we’ll see.” 


Y. 

Pierre passed on to a remote quarter of the building, and 
abruptly entered the room of one of the Apostles whom he 
knew. There was no one in it. He hesitated an instant ; then 
walked up to a book-case, with a chest of drawers in the lower 
part. 

“ Here I saw him put them : — this, — ^no — ^here — ay — ^we’ll 
try this.” 

Wrenching open the locked drawer, a brace of pistols, a 
powder flask, a bullet-bag, and a round green box of percussion- 
caps lay before him. 

“ Ha ! what wondrous tools Prometheus used, who knows ? 
but more wondrous these, that in an instant, can unmake the 
topmost three-score-years-and-ten of all Prometheus’ makings. 
Come : here’s two tubes that’ll outroar the thousand pipes of 
Harlem. — Is the music in ’em ? — No ? — Well then, here’s pow- 
der for the shrill treble ; and wadding for the tenor ; and a lead 
bullet for the concluding bass ! And, — and,— and, — ay ; for 
the top-wadding. I’ll send ’em back their lie, and plant it' 
scorching in their brains !” 

He tore off that part of Glen and Fred’s letter, which more 

X* 


490 


PIERRE. 


particularly gave the lie ; aud halving it, rammed it home upon 
the bullets. 

He thrust a pistol into either breast of his coat ; and taking 
the rearward passages, went down into the back street ; direct- 
ing his rapid steps toward the grand central thoroughfare of 
the city. 

It was a cold, but clear, quiet, and slantingly sunny day ; it 
was between four and five of the afternoon ; that hour, when 
the great glaring avenue was most thronged with haughty- 
rolling carriages, and proud-rustling promenaders, both men 
and women. But these last were mostly confined to the one 
wide pavement to the West ; the other pavement was well 
nigh deserted, save by porters, waiters, and parcel-caniers of 
the shops. On the west pave, up and down, for three long 
miles, two streams of glossy, shawled, or broadcloth life un- 
ceasingly brushed by each other, as long, resplendent, drooping 
trains of rival peacocks brush. 

Mixing with neither of these, Pierre stalked midway be- 
tween. From his wild and fatal aspect, one way the people 
took the wall, the other way they took the curb. Unentan- 
gledly Pierre threaded all their host, though in its inmost heart. 
Bent he was, on a straightforward, mathematical intent. His 
eyes were all about him as he went; especially he glanced 
over to the deserted pavement opposite ; for that emptiness did 
not deceive him ; he himself had often walked that side, the 
better to scan the pouring throng upon the other. 

Just as he gained a large, open, triangular space, built round 
with the stateliest public erections ; — the very proscenium of 
the town ; — he saw Glen and Fred advancing, in the distance, 
on the other side. He continued on ; and soon he saw them 
crossing over to him obliquely, so as to take him face-and-face. 
He continued on ; when suddenly running ahead of Fred, who 
now chafingly stood still (because Fred would not make two, 
in the direct personal assault upon one) and shouting “ Liar ! 


PIEREE. 


491 


Villain !” Glen leaped toward Pierre from front, and with such 
lightning-like ferocity, that the simultaneous blow of his cow- 
hide smote Pierre across the cheek, and left a half-livid and 
half-bloody brands 

For that one moment, the people fell back on all sides from 
them ; and left them — momentarily recoiled from each other — 
in a ring of panics. 

But clapping both hands to his two breasts, Pierre, on both 
sides shaking oflf the sudden white gi-asp of two rushing girls, 
tore out both pistols, and rushed headlong upon Glen. 

“ For thy one blow, take here two deaths ! ’Tis speechless 
sweet to murder thee !” 

Spatterings of his own kindred blood were upon the pave- 
ment ; his own hand had extinguished his house in slaughter- 
ing the only unoutlawed human being by the name of Glen- 
dinning; — and Pierre was seized by a hundred contending 
hands. 


YI. 

That sundown, Pierre stood solitary in a low dungeon of the 
city prison. The cumbersome stone ceiling almost rested on 
his brow ; so that the long tiers of massive cell-galleries above 
seemed partly piled on him. His immortal, immovable, 
bleached cheek was dry; but the stone cheeks of the walls 
were trickling. The pent twilight of the contracted yard, com- 
ing through the barred arrow-slit, fell in dim bars upon the 
granite floor. 

“ Here, then, is the untimely, timely end ; — Life’s last chap- 
ter well stitched into the middle ! Nor book, nor author of 
the book, hath any sequel, though each hath its last lettering ! 
— It is ambiguous still. Had I been heartless now, disowned. 


492 


PIEEEE. 


and spurningly portioned off the girl at Saddle Meadows, then 
had I been happy through a long life on earth, and perchance 
through a long eternity in heaven ! Now, ’tis merely hell in 
both worlds. Well, be it hell. I will mold a trumpet of the 
flames, and, with my breath of flame, breathe back my de- 
fiance ! But give me first another body ! I long and long to 
die, to be rid of this dishonored cheek. Hung hy the neck till 
thou he dead. — Not if I forestall you, though ! — Oh now to 
live is death, and now to die is life ; now, to my soul, were a 
sword my midwife ! — Hark ! — the hangman ? — who comes 

“ Thy wife and cousin— so they say ; — hope they may be ; 
they may stay till twelve wheezingly answered a turnkey, 
pushing the tottering girls into the cell, and locking the door 
upon them. 

“ Ye two pale ghosts, were this the other world, ye were not 
welcome. Away ! — Good Angel and Bad Angel both ! — For 
Pierre is neuter now !” 

“ Oh, ye stony roofs, and seven-fold stony skies ! — ^not thou 
art the murderer, but thy sister hath murdered thee, my broth- 
er, oh my brother !” 

At these wailed words from Isabel, Lucy shrunk up like a 
scroll, and noiselessly fell at the feet of Pierre. 

He touched her heart. — “ Dead ! — Girl ! wife or sister, saint 
or fiend !” — seizing Isabel in his grasp — “ in thy breasts, life for 
infants lodgeth not, but death-milk for thee and me! — The 
drug 1” and tearing her bosom loose, he seized the secret vial 
nesting there. 


PIERRE. 


493 


YII. 

At night the squat-framed, asthmatic turnkey tramped the 
dim-lit iron gallery before one of the long honey-combed rows 
of cells. 

“ Mighty still there, in that hole, them two mice I let in ; — 
humph !” 

Suddenly, at the further end of the gallery, he discerned a 
shadowy figure emerging from the archway there, and run- 
ning on before an officer, and impetuously approaching where 
the turnkey stood. 

“More relations coming. These wind-broken chaps are 
always in before the second death, seeing they always miss the 
first. — Humph! What a froth the fellow’s in? — Wheezes 
worse than me 1” 

“ Where is she ?” cried Fred Tartan, fiercely, to him ; “ she’s 
not at the murderer’s rooms ! I sought the sweet girl there, 
instant upon the blow ; but%e lone dumb thing I found there 
only wrung her speechless hands and pointed to the door ; — 
both birds were flown ! Where is she, turnkey ? I’ve searched 
all lengths and breadths but this. Hath any angel swept 
adown and lighted in your granite hell ?” 

“ Broken his wind, and broken loose, too, aint he ?” wheezed 
the turnkey to the oflBcer who now came up. 

“ This gentleman seeks a young lady, his sister, someway 
innocently connected with the prisoner last brought in. Have 
any females been here to see him ?” 

“ Oh, ay, — two of ’em in there now jerking his stumped 
thumb behind him. 

Fred darted toward the designated cell. 

“ Oh, easy, easy, young gentleman” — jingling at his huge 
bunch of keys — “ easy, easy, till I get the picks — I’m house- 
wife here. — Hallo, here comes another.” 


494 


PIERRE. 


Hurrying through the 'same archway toward them, there 
now rapidly advanced a second impetuous figure, running on 
in advance of a second officer. 

“ Where is the cell ?” demanded Millthorpe. 

“ He seeks an interview with the last prisoner,” explained 
the second officer. 

“ Kill ’em both with one stone, then,” wheezed the turnkey, 
gratingly throwing open the door of the cell. “ There’s his 
pretty parlor, gentlemen ; step in. Reg’lar mouse-hole, arn’t 
it ? — Might hear a rabbit burrow on the world’s t’other side ; — ■ 
are they all ’sleep ?” 

“ I stumble !” cried Fred, from within ; “ Lucy ! A light ! 
a light ! — Lucy !” And he wildly groped about the cell, and 
blindly caught Millthorpe, who was also wildly groping. 

“ Blister me not ! take off thy bloody touch ! — Ho, ho, the 
light ! — Lucy ! Lucy ! — she’s fainted !” 

Then both stumbled again, and fell fi-om each other in the 
cell : and for a moment all seemed still, as though all breaths 
were held. * 

As the light was now thrust in, Fred was seen on the floor 
holding his sister in his arms ; and Millthorpe kneeling by the 
side of Pierre, the unresponsive hand in his ; while Isabel, 
feebly moving, reclined between, against the wall. 

“ Yes ! Yes ! — Dead ! Dead ! Dead ! — without one visible 
wound — her sweet plumage hides it. — Thou hellish carrion, 
this is thy hellish work ! Thy juggler’s rifle brought down this 
heavenly bird ! Oh, my God, my God ! Thou scalpest me 
with this sight !” 

“ The dark vein’s burst, and here’s the deluge-wreck — all 
stranded here ! Ah, Pierre ! my old companion, Pien’e ; — 
school-mate — play-mate — friend ! — Our sweet boy’s walks within 
the woods ! — Oh, I would have rallied thee, and banteringly 
warned thee from thy too moody ways, but thou wouldst never 
heed ! What scornful innocence rests on thy lips, my friend ! 


PIERRE. 


495 


— Hand scorclied with murderer’s powder, yet how woman- 
soft ! — By heaven, these fingers move ! — one speechless clasp ! 
—all’s o’er I” 

“ All’s o’er, and ye know him not !” came gasping from the 
wall ; and from the fingers of Isabel dropped an empty vial — 
as it had been a run-out sand-glass — and shivered upon the 
floor ; and her whole form sloped sideways, and she fell upon 
Pierre’s heart, and her long hair ran over him, and arbored him 
in ebon vines. 


FIKIS. 


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